


De Lorean? I've never heard of him, monsieur

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Compliant, Gen, Medical Details, Missing Scene, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: While in the middle of planning how to take down the cardinal, Athos and d'Artagnan are suddenly swept to a strange and mysterious land.France, 2017.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, worst title ever :(

It was Porthos’s idea, of course.

Porthos, the master of sleight of hand, the pickpocket, the skilled and brazen card cheat, the interrogator _par excellence_. It was he who realised that only a cunning, bold—even outrageous—act would fool both the cardinal and Milady, and lead, they hoped, to the downfall of both.

Nevertheless, it involved injury to their youngest, and while d’Artagnan was sanguine, Athos was not, and Aramis all too mindful of how minor injuries could kill even a healthy young man through infection. Treville had given them time to consider how best to enact the plan, and meanwhile, the Musketeers had their normal duties, protecting a king and his first minister who had plotted to kill their beloved queen.

“We could shoot the cardinal right here,” Porthos grumbled as they sat on their horses, waiting for his majesty to take his shot. “Pretend we couldn’t find the assassin.”

“Careful, my friend,” Aramis murmured just as quietly. “The trees have ears.”

“We don’t want to end up with the king disbanding the only decent guard he has in retribution for losing his cardinal.” Athos surprised them—and himself—with his lack of censure for Porthos’s treasonous words. But then the treason the cardinal had planned was of such breath-taking evil, a private wish for the man to die by any means paled next to it.

“My only concern is that she won’t fall for it,” d’Artagnan said. “She’s no fool.”

Athos nodded. He had to allow that, whatever else he thought of his wife. And he thought many things, none of which complimented that lady.

“Rain’s coming,” Porthos said, wiping his brow.

“A storm.” On matters meteorological, they all deferred to d’Artagnan, the farmer and farmer’s son. “We should warn his majesty.”

“Agreed.” Athos twitched the reins and urged Roger to walk towards the royal party. One of the courtiers with the party saw them approaching, so Athos pointed to the sky. The courtier waved and nodded to show he understood, and ran back towards the pavilion under which their majesties were seated. A flurry of activity followed, indicating the need for a hasty removal from the hunting grounds had been acted upon.

The musketeers kept their distance, watching for real assassins among the trees, not Porthos’s imaginary one, while they watched the hunting party begin its regal but swift retreat. And not a moment too soon. The wind picked up quite suddenly, hurling leaves and twigs into the eyes of the four horses, making them jostle and baulk as their riders tried to make them head on. A few moments later, thunder sounded and lightning flashed alarmingly close.

“Keep away from the trees!” D’Artagnan’s shouts only barely sounded through the racket of wind and thunder.

“Keep following the king!” Athos bellowed.

His order quickly became moot. The rain grew torrential in a heartbeat, and lightning struck a tree not twenty feet from them. Roger, terrified by the explosion, bolted, and Athos could do nothing more than try to hold on. D’Artagnan galloped after rider and horse, and managed to get alongside the stallion to grab the reins, pulling him around. Porthos and Aramis rode towards them at speed.

“We have to get out of this,” Aramis shouted, just as hail began to pelt down on the ground.

“The palace,” Athos yelled back. “Ride!”

Blinded by rain, hail, and debris, both horses and men could do little more than move in what they hoped was the right direction. To stand under a tree could mean death, a point reinforced as the branch of a tall beech cracked and fell to the ground in front of them under the force of the wind.

D’Artagnan’s horse reared and threw him, before bolting off through the woods. Porthos tried to pull d’Artagnan up onto his own mount, but the animal bucked and fought both storm and rider, breaking Porthos’s grip on d’Artagnan’s hand, kicking out and catching d’Artagnan on the side of the head, before galloping away. Aramis managed to urge his own horse to chase after Porthos and d’Artagnan’s runaway mount

Athos could not follow as he struggled to control his panicking horse. When he had Roger under some semblance of control, he reached out to catch d’Artagnan’s hand but his dazed brother couldn’t manage to take hold of his. Overhead, thunder cracked the bell of heaven and the ground at their feet exploded.

Roger reared. Athos hit the ground and knew nothing more.

******************************

Athos was suddenly aware and awake in a manner he did not associate with a blow to the head. The whiteness resolved to green and grey and brown, and then to trees and earth within a moment. But the surroundings were not...familiar. The ground was compacted earth scattered with gravel, not grass, and the trees stood in neat ranks, not the semi-natural growth of the hunting grounds.

And where he had been sweating profusely under the September humidity before the storm, now he shivered, the air cold and frosty as a winter’s morning.

He got to his feet, waiting for dizziness that never came. So he hadn’t hit his head or been injured in the lightning strike. But when he looked around....

_D’Artagnan!_

His brother lay sprawled on the ground, his face pale with blood on his forehead. Athos rushed to his side. “D’Artagnan? Can you hear me? D’Artagnan.” He touched the boy’s face—cold. His cloak was providing no warmth nor protection from the ground. Athos lifted the lad and wrapped the cloak around him, using his own to cushion d’Artagnan’s head. D’Artagnan began to stir, and mumble.

“Charles, wake up.”

As his brother roused a little, Athos looked about them. His first impression was not wrong—they were no longer in the hunting grounds, and by the feel of the weather, no longer in Paris. How could that be?

“‘Thos?”

He bent over d’Artagnan again. “Easy,” he said as the lad tried to lever himself up on his elbows, only to fall back with a nauseated expression. “Porthos’s horse kicked you in the head.”

“Feel sick.”

“Just rest.” He looked around. Where was Aramis? Where, indeed, was the palace, Porthos, the king’s party?

“Excuse me, _monsieur_ —is he all right?”

Athos suppressed his jerk of surprise at the stranger’s question and turned, smiling politely at  an oddly-dressed man with a beard, and a tall girl in a bright purple wig, wearing clothes that intimately revealed the shape of her legs and almost everything above them. Athos tried not to look.

“ _Monsieur_?” The man knelt down next to d’Artagnan. “Is he injured?”

“He hit his head.” The stranger’s accent was very odd. “Could you please tell me how I may take him to the Garrison? There is an infirmary there.”

The man stared uncomprehendingly, then looked up at his companion who shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I wish to go to the Garrison,” Athos said slowly. “I am Athos, of the King’s Musketeers.”

The man leaned back a little in surprise. “A Musketeer?”

“Yes? This is Paris, is it not?” Although he wasn’t at all sure it was.

“Paris, yes.” But then there was a stream of very strange French—or perhaps a _patois_ unknown to Athos—of which the only word he could easily pick out was ‘musketeer’. The man was excited for some reason, but Athos sensed that he disbelieved Athos’s words.

“Please, he needs help.”

“Of course, _au qué_.”

“‘ _Au qué_ ’?”

“Yes, _au qué_. I will help you.”

He helped d’Artagnan to a sitting position, which lead to Athos’s brother immediately retching off to his side before sinking back into Athos’s arms.

“My apologies,” Athos said, drawing out his handkerchief to wipe d’Artagnan’s mouth. His water bottle was on Roger’s saddle, and Roger was who knew where. “If you could send word to the Garrison, they will bring men to help us.”

Again that uncomprehending look. The girl—surely some kind of entertainer or tumbler in those revealing and immodest clothes—said something to the man, who shook his head. Then she addressed Athos, speaking in a language that sounded like German or Dutch, which Athos didn’t speak, and then Italian, which he knew a little but not enough to converse in. She tried Latin, and finally, he could understand _and_ reply.

“Sir, we do not readily understand your tongue.”

“I apologise,” Athos replied slowly, for his Latin lessons were many years ago. “Is this not France? Are we in Paris?”

“Yes, we are. But your accent is strange to us. Where are you from?”

“From here, _domina_. Your French is strange to me too. Is it from the south?” Though it didn’t sound much like d’Artagnan’s Occitan-accented French, or even Gascon. “Or the north, perhaps?”

“No, I’m from Paris too. Why are you wearing a costume?”

“I wear the uniform of the King’s musketeers, _domina_. If you don’t know the direction to the Garrison, then if you can send word to the Louvre, one of the servants there can send a message to my captain.”

“But sir, the Louvre is right here. You are in the grounds of the Tuileries. That is the Louvre.” She waved to her right, where a building could be seen, although it was plainly not the Louvre.

Athos smiled again. The girl was mistaken, perhaps a little touched, though her Latin was surprisingly good even for a man, let alone a woman. “Never mind, I’ll deal with it.”

She frowned, and spoke rapidly to her companion, who shook his head, and pointed at the cut on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “Jeremie says your friend needs to go to hospital. He has a concussion.”

“An inn is of no help. He needs the infirmary.”

She stopped, and her frown cleared. “Yes, the infirmary. We can take you there. Or does he need an ambulance?”

Treville would be furious if he found one of his men being carted about in a litter over a simple head injury. “I don’t think so.” He leaned in to speak to d’Artagnan. “Can you stand? We need to get away from here?”

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said, and with Athos’s help, climbed to his feet. He swayed a little but plastered a brave smile on his pale face.

“We shall find our own way to the infirmary,” Athos told the girl. “Thank you.”

******************************

Jeremie stood and grasped Yvette’s shoulder. “Why are they leaving?”

“He said they would make their own way to the hospital.”

“Dressed like that? He said he was a Musketeer, for God’s sake.”

“I know, but they’re clearly role players, so let’s just leave them be.”

“Role players who can only communicate in Latin?”

“So they’re really into it. Jeremie—”

But her kind-hearted lover was already chasing after the two men in the amazingly realistic period costumes. Yvette sighed and followed more slowly, reaching the three as Jeremie was speaking to them in a language that sounded a little like Spanish. The injured one responded, though slowly on account of the head injury he really, truly needed to see a doctor about.

Jeremie turned to her in excitement. “He speaks Gascon!”

“Yeah? Maybe he’s a student like you.”

“All right. Ask them what date it is.”

She rolled her eyes and spoke to the older one, the one who knew Latin. “Sir, pray tell me what year of the lord this is?”

The man lifted one eyebrow in surprise. “1630, _domina_. The seventh day of September.”

 _What the hell?_ “What did he tell you?” she asked Jeremie.

“Seventh of September, 1630.”

“Like I said, role players.”

“You don’t understand. The younger one is call d’Artagnan. The other one is Athos. D’Artagnan and Athos—Dumas. The Musketeers.”

“Yes, I know who d’Artagnan and Athos are,” she said impatiently. “Everyone knows who they are. Jeremie, the kid needs to go to hospital. It’s cold, and you’re not helping them.”

“If we send him to hospital, they’ll lock him up in an asylum. He really thinks he _is_ d’Artagnan. The other one believes he’s Athos.”

“So they’re both a bit odd. The hospital will deal with them. Let’s get a taxi and take them there. Or they can ask for help at the Louvre.”

Jeremie waved his hands at her. “No, no. You’re missing the point. I think they’re the real thing.”

“That’s not funny,” she snapped. “They’re obviously in costume—”

“Look at the swords,” he said urgently. “And the pistols.”

To their credit, the two strangers had allowed them to argue while waiting patiently, but now the one pretending to be d’Artagnan swayed, and his legs collapsed under him. The other one caught him, holding him up with difficulty since ‘d’Artagnan’ was a good bit taller than him.

Yvette looked around. This corner of the Tuileries gardens was quiet on this cold January day.  “Please,” she said to ‘Athos’, “let us take him to a doctor. He might be seriously injured.”

“We only need to reach the garrison,” he said, politely, but with steely resolution. “If you could point the way...no, never mind.”

“All right. Enough’s enough,” she said in French. “This game of yours could kill your friend. Do you want that?”

‘Athos’ frowned, but didn’t seem to understand. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said. She repeated what she’d said in Latin, then told Jeremie to say it in Gascon, which he did. ‘D’Artagnan’ muttered something.

“He says it’s not a game,” Jeremie reported. “Though he’s not really fit to answer questions.”

“Which is why—” She grabbed at ‘Athos’s’ hand. “Come with me,” she said in Latin, and in French. “Now.”

To her surprise, he allowed it, and she dragged the two strangers over to a bench so ‘d’Artagnan’ could sit down. “I’m calling SAMU,” she said to Jeremie. “Then it can be their problem.”

“You can’t leave them.”

“I bloody can,” she said, tapping the number on her mobile. As she spoke to the SAMU operator, she couldn’t help but notice ‘Athos’ watching her with undisguised astonishment. She walked away a little so not to be distracted.

******************************

What was the girl doing? She seemed to hold sway over the man, but her insistence that he and d’Artagnan were making a pretence of who they were, was enough to make Athos want to get away from both of them. Something was terribly amiss. Perhaps he had hit his head after all, and this was a fever dream, though he had never had one this strange, and surely he would never come up with a...device...such as the girl held as she talked at speed.

Perhaps these two were lunatics? But how to explain the weather, and the change of location. “ _Monsieur_ ,” he asked the man, “what year of the lord do you think it is?”

“2017. January the third.”

“I would thank you not to mock me, _monsieur_.” Athos rose to his feet and drew his pistol, although he didn’t point it. Not yet. “Answer me truthfully.”

“I did. This is the year 2017. What year were you born?

“1599, at La Fère, my family’s ancestral home.” He spoke slowly and carefully, never taking his eyes off the boy, or his hand off d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “In the reign of his majesty, Henri IV. What is she doing?”

“She is calling medical assistance.”

Athos gritted his teeth in anger, and pointed the pistol at the stranger. “Do not treat me like an imbecile, _monsieur_. Is she a witch? Or is she playing a game with us?”

“No, no! _Monsieur_ , I beg you to be calm. You have travelled in time from yours to mine. I don’t know how. Do you really believe it is 1630?”

“Of course,” Athos said impatiently.

“And the king on the throne?”

“Louis, son of Henri. Who is _your_ king?”

“We don’t have one. We executed the last one, Louis XVI, two hundred years ago.”

“You executed...no! Impossible! Who would lay hands on the king?”

Jeremie shrugged. “The people, _monsieur_. There was a revolution. You must have seen the seeds of this in your time.”

Athos lowered the pistol, acknowledging the truth of this. “But it’s impossible,” he said.

“Yes, I’m sure it feels that way to you. But I beg you, please conceal your weapons. And if you do not want d’Artagnan arrested, you must _pretend_ you are playing a game. That you come from this time, and that you are not really Musketeers. Merely actors.”

He said it again more slowly so Athos could follow the words in his strange accent, then repeated it in Gascon to d’Artagnan, of which Athos knew a few words thanks to Treville and d’Artagnan himself. “We must hide in plain sight?” Athos said.

“Yes. He needs help, but we can’t tell the doctors the truth. Please.”

If this was a dream or a spell, resisting was pointless. If the man was lying, then Athos still had to find an explanation for the other discrepancies. And with d’Artagnan fainting at his side, he could not stop to quibble now. “As you wish.”

******************************

Yvette walked back to them. “The paramedics will be here soon. Then we can have lunch.”

“We can’t just abandon them,” Jeremie begged her. “They don’t know anyone from this time.”

“Oh please. You can’t pretend...is that thing loaded?” Her voice squeaked in alarm. Athos had his pistol out and although it wasn’t pointed at anyone, he looked wary as if he was thinking of using it. “He has a _real gun_?”

“Shhh,” Jeremie said. “He’s going to play along. We should hide this stuff though. _Monsieur_ , your weapons will cause alarm.” Athos’s hand went to his sword and Yvette didn’t like anyone’s chances of take it off him. “We need to hide them.”

Athos went ramrod straight, and his eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Very well. It’s not _our_ problem,” Yvette said with diminishing patience. “If they want to be arrested, which they should be if he’s waving real guns around, then the police can handle it.”

Her lover put his hands on her shoulders. “Please, will you trust me? We haven’t much time.”

“Jeremie....”

“Please, darling.”

“All right.”

“Then could you please ask him in Latin to remove the weapons, including the knife—”

“ _Main-gauche_ ,” she corrected. She had a lot of nerdy friends who were into this kind of fake weapon shit.

“Right. Ask him to remove them and roll them up in a cloak. We can look after them or hide them while d’Artagnan is treated.”

She did as Jeremie asked, and Athos appeared to understand. He began to undo his weapon belt. “If he claims to be d’Artagnan,” she muttered to Jeremie, “then they’ll think he’s a nut anyway.”

“Yes, you’re right.” He turned to ‘Athos’. “ _Monsieur_ , what is d’Artagnan’s first name?”

The man answered politely, though he was clearly puzzled. “Charles.”

“All right, then we will say his name is Charles Martin. And you are...?”

“Olivier. Olivier d’Athos. It’s my real name.” He put his own weapon belt on the bench, and worked to undo the belt of his injured friend.

“Good. You are visiting Paris from Belgium, staying with me.”

“Belgium?”

“The Low countries. Just remember ‘Belgium’,”

Athos repeated the name, rolling it around his mouth. “I have it.”

“Good.”

Yvette heard sirens. “We need to hurry. Athos, hide your weapons in a cloak. Please, it’s important.”

The man didn’t argue, and as Jeremie took the weapons belts from both men, Yvette noticed the swords looked well used. _Fuck_. This was insane. Time travel was literally impossible. But for role players, these guys were disturbingly convincing.

Athos— _Olivier_ —had surrendered his cloak so that the injured _Charles_ could stay wrapped up in his own, but despite the near zero temperatures, did not shiver, despite also removing and hiding his hat. He looked like he was no stranger to hardship, and certainly made a convincing Musketer.

They were out of time. Paramedics were crossing the grass towards them. She waved to tell them where to come. “Please let us explain,” she whispered to Olivier, “and Jeremie will go with him to the infirmary to translate.”

“I can’t abandon him,” he said.

“We won’t be. We’ll follow, you and me. It’s important, I swear it.”

He searched her face, then nodded. She was in no doubt that if she was lying, he would make her pay for it.

Jeremie was already quietly explaining things to Charles in Gascon by the time the paramedics arrived, so it was easy to tell them he was their friend, visiting Paris, and had hit his head tripping and hitting a rock. They insisted he needed to be taken to the hospital for an x-ray, and Jeremie rode with them.

“Come with me this way,” she told Olivier.

He did as she said, following her to the road where she hailed a taxi, and sat in it wide-eyed but calm. Except for the simple fact he could _not_ be from the seventeenth century, Yvette could believe he was genuinely amazed and shocked by it all, although too intelligent to make a fuss.

But since it _was_ impossible, how did she explain the two of them? A man suffering from a concussion could hardly pretend not to speak French when he could, or understand a language spoken by no one, as far as she knew, as their maternal and only tongue. Olivier’s Latin was pure and scholarly, but his French accent and vocabulary were very odd. A hell of a lot of effort to go to for role playing.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

He roused himself from his fixed staring out of the window. “We were guarding his majesty while he hunted. The day was very hot, humid. There was a sudden, powerful storm, and lightning struck the ground near d’Artagnan and me. When we woke up, we were in these gardens.”

“These gardens are former royal hunting grounds. Did you know that?”

“I have never been here in my life, _domina_.”

“But the Louvre is there, don’t you see?” They were passing the museum now.

 Olivier stared at it. “I do not recognise it. What are those...structures?” he asked, pointing to the famous pyramids. “And the shape of this building is wrong. Are we really still in Paris?”

“Yes, we are. If you’re playing a role, _monsieur_ , there is no need to continue. Your friend is hurt. Being honest will only help him.”

His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the bundle of weapons hidden inside the cloak on her lap. “Were you not a woman, I would challenge you for repeatedly calling me a liar. Since you are, I will simply ask you to refrain. My word is unimpeachable.”

Had he just threatened to _kill_ her over an insult? “You will find duelling is illegal now, _monsieur_.”

“I know it’s illegal,” he said, thin-lipped and angry. “His majesty forbade it. But some insults to one’s honour are unforgiveable.”

 _Keep the lunatic calm._ “I apologise. It’s all strange and hard to understand.”

He nodded graciously. “Apology accepted. May I ask why you are dressed so...so theatrically?”

She was wearing a warm woollen coat, a scarf, and leggings. Nothing whatsoever unusual for this weather. “This is quite normal for Paris, _monsieur_.”

“So you are not an actress?”

She laughed. “No. I am a professional translator for technical documents.”

He blinked. “Oh. I’m sorry for my mistake.”

“Never mind. Look, we’re here.”

She paid the taxi driver and they got out. Olivier stared at the building. “This is not the infirmary.”

“It’s not _your_ infirmary, but it is _an_ infirmary. You just have to trust me, _monsieur_.”

The cloak and weapons were heavy, and she struggled with them. Without a word, Olivier took them from her and carried them as if they weighed nothing. He was no giant, but she wondered if all that blue leather concealed more muscle than she realised.

Nothing about him made any _sense_.

******************************

Athos was rarely grateful for his upbringing these days, but without the dignity and steel spine his parents had insisted upon as essential to his position, he would never have been able to contain his astonishment—and panic—at what he saw at every moment and at every corner in this incredible place. He could think he had died and gone to heaven, except he knew for certain there was no place there for such as him, and he doubted Hell had such benign demons as the pretty, if slightly impatient, young lady in front of him.

2017? Impossible. But so was the contraption in which they had ridden to this ‘infirmary’, and the others on these streets, the lights with no fire, the noises from machines of unknown origin, and the bizarre clothes worn by all. He was no prude—he refused to believe that an outbreak of immorality had caused all these women to suddenly bare legs and the men to walk about in tight, clinging trousers, so this must be this society’s norm.

But it was not the norm in Paris, nor even in the most decadent outreaches of the world that he knew of, so either he and d’Artagnan had been transported beyond the known world, or else beyond their known time.

Which was simply not possible.

So he was either mad or dreaming. Knowing it was futile to fight a dream, and if he was mad, he was incompetent to do so, he could only follow along and hope for consciousness. But in his dream/madness, d’Artagnan was injured. Was the injury also imaginary?

“I don’t know your name, madame,” he said as they made their way into a building that seemed composed largely of glass.

“Yvette Boulay.”

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, _Mademoiselle_ Boulay.”

“Madame,” she corrected absently. “Just call me Yvette.”

“And your...husband?”

“Jeremie? Oh, he’s not my husband. Just my lover.”

“Ah.” A man and his mistress, then. “Yvette, what happens now?”

“We wait while someone looks at d’Artagnan and decides if he’s fit to leave.”

“And then how do we get back to Paris? Our Paris?”

For the first time, she looked shifty. “Let’s talk about that later, when Jeremie returns.”

“Very well. But I have friends who will be looking for me, and the king will certainly demand to know where his guard has got to.”

“Friends?”

“Yes. Aramis—”

“And Porthos. Of course.”

He tried not to be annoyed at her mocking tone. “You know of them? How is that possible?”

“There’s a whole set of books about you. You know that. Come on, you can’t pretend _they_ don’t exist.”

He started to respond but the glass doors opened by magic, and he couldn’t conceal his shock. “How did that happen?”

“Electricity and a camera.”

More words he had no understanding of, and delivered with equally puzzling sarcasm. And what were these books? Surely this was proof this was nothing but illusion. In which case, nothing he could do could harm anyone, and nothing could harm him. Or d’Artagnan.

At least, he hoped not.

They entered a room full of people, some obviously injured, others looking somewhat unwell, although all were clean and well-dressed, so Athos didn’t know why they weren’t at their homes, being attended by a physician there. Yvette spoke to a woman who appeared to be in charge, then returned. “We have to wait,” she said. “The doctor is carrying out tests on Charles.”

“Tests?”

“To see how badly he’s injured. Head injuries can be dangerous.”

“Ah. Yes, they can. It’s not his first, of course. We’ve all been knocked out many times.”

“I bet,” she muttered in French. The expression made no sense to Athos. “Come and sit.”

They found two chairs, both made of metal and cloth, of a type Athos had never even seen drawings of. His ability to conceal his emotions behind a calm, dignified mask was fraying fast. From her coat pocket, Yvette pulled out the small black object she had been talking to earlier. “Let me show you these books.”

“But you haven’t anything with you.” Not exactly true—she had a small wallet on a narrow belt on one shoulder, but even the smallest psalter could not be concealed in it.

“I don’t need...oh, here. Look.”

He blinked at what she held—the black object glowed with light, though he hadn’t seen her light it or smelled any smoke. “Look,” she insisted.

On the surface, which was cool to the touch despite the bright light, there were words. French words. Words concerning a book about Athos and his friends.

A book written _two hundred years_ after the present. _His_ present. “No. Impossible.”

“Come on, you know these books. Every French person knows them.”

“But I have never met _Monsieur_ Dumas. How could have he have written a book about us? This is witchcraft,” he said sternly. “You should be more careful, showing me this. Richelieu is grasping, and won’t hesitate to sacrifice you if you have money to take.”

She rolled her eyes. She did that a lot, it seemed. “I don’t think I need to worry about a man who’s been dead for over three hundred years.”

“You jest, but I assure you, _mademoiselle_ —”

“Stop calling me that. It’s not polite.”

“Eh?”

“[Whatever my marital status, it’s not polite](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/feb/22/mademoiselle-removed-from-french-official-forms).”

Yes, he was certainly dreaming. “My apologies,” he murmured, and wondered how soon he could dream of a bottle of wine so he could drink it.

******************************

She’d finally broken the man, she realised. His make-believe world had just collided with reality and he couldn’t cope. Maybe she should ask the receptionist if she could have someone kind and understanding come and take the mad man away.

But Olivier didn’t _seem_ mad, apart from this bizarre pretence he was from centuries before the present time. He was calm, mostly polite, and rational. He wasn’t spewing nonsense words, and if he was maintaining an act, it was remarkably consistent. People who were actually delusional weren’t like this—she’d met more than a few in her undergraduate years.

“Yvette.” She looked up to see Jeremie walking towards them. He sat beside her.

“How is he?”

“Not too bad. He’s dehydrated, strangely.”

She covered her mouth in surprise. “He said...Olivier said...that the weather was very hot when he was guarding the king. But that’s all just playacting.”

“Playacting or not, Charles has a real concussion. They don’t think his skull is fractured, but they’re just x-raying him now. He can go home if it’s clear. Although where ‘home’ is, I don’t know.”

“ _Monsieur_.” Olivier reached over to touch Jeremie’s knee. “How is d’Artagnan? Why is he not with you?”

“He’s being x-rayed.” Olivier squinted at the word. “Um...they’re making a picture of his brain.”

Olivier rose in alarm. “They have opened his skull?”

Yvette jumped up to haul him back to the seat. “Be quiet,” she snapped in Latin. “And calm down. Of course not. He’s not being harmed at all.”

“More...magic?” he murmured.

“Yeah, something like that. Shit,” she added in French. “Jeremie, what are you planning to do with them? We can’t take them back with us.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have a small apartment and they must have a real home somewhere.”

Other people were beginning to take an interest in the circus. She dragged Olivier up by the arm. “Outside, both of you. Bring their stuff, Jeremie.”

Olivier let her tug him along, although she got the distinct impression it was definitely something he could have stopped with little difficulty. His arm was quite brawny under her hand.

Outside the waiting room, she could argue properly. “We’ve done enough, Jeremie. Once Charles is cleared, we say goodbye.”

“We can’t. Ask him where he lives. Go on.”

She made a face at him, then turned to Olivier. “Where do you live?”

“In an apartment near the garrison.”

“Where is the garrison?”

“In the Rue des Mousquetaires.”

“Okay.” She pulled up Google maps and put in the street name. “Nothing.” She tried ‘garrison Paris’”. Also nothing. “Your _real_ address, _monsieur_.”

“Wait,” Jeremie said as Olivier bridled at her tone. “Try La Fère.”

Olivier paled. “How do you know that name?”

“Because you’re supposed to be Athos de la Fère,” Yvette said, now out of patience with this game. “There. One hundred and forty-four kilometres from Paris. Is that where you really live?” She repeated the question in Latin.

“No...not for many years. It burned down. The house. Your magic doesn’t show that?”

“It’s Google maps, not magic.” He stared uncomprehendingly. “What’s the nearest village to the house?”

“Pinon,” he said quietly.

“There it is. Twenty-five kilometres from La Fère.”

“About seven leagues,” Jeremie explained to Olivier.

“No, you have that wrong. It is but a league from La Fère, and La Fère is but fifteen leagues from Paris. You have the wrong places.”

Yvette threw up her hands. “He’s a nut, Jeremie, I’m sorry, but I won’t have a crazy man in our home. Especially not one carrying swords and guns and knives.”

“We can hide those away,” he pleased. “He’s not faking this.”

“All right, maybe he really believes it. But he’s not actually the real Athos because the real Athos is a _fictional_ character.”

“D’Artagnan wasn’t. He really was a Musketeer, from Gascony.”

She tsked in irritation. “That kid in there isn’t d’Artagnan.”

“Yeah? Then why does he speak fluent, idiomatic Gascon, and French in the manner of the early seventeenth century?”

“How do you know that’s what it is?”

“Because of the way he’s pronouncing things, and the words,” Jeremie explained in his “I’m a good teacher being patient with an exceptionally stupid student’ voice. “It’s not modern French. And I told you, look at the swords. They’ve been used very hard. All the weapons are well-used. When would a role player have a change to create that much wear on them?”

“By living it full time? I don’t know, but we should Google role players, find a sympathetic group, and hand them over.”

“Can’t they stay a couple of nights? The doctor said Charles needed to rest.”

At this point, Olivier touched her shoulder. “Excuse me, _domina_. But you seem to be arguing where we should stay. If you will direct me to my brother’s side, I will take care of the rest.”

“There, see?” she said. “He just said he’ll take care of it.”

Jeremie folded his arms. “How?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Yvette, Charles is injured. Olivier doesn’t know where he is. _Monsieur_ ,” he said to Olivier, “we would be honoured if you would stay two nights in our humble home.”

“No, we would not!”

Olivier raised his hand. “I don’t wish to be the cause of strife.”

“You’re not. Do you have any money?”

Olivier frowned. “Yes?” He reached inside his belt and pulled out a coin purse. He tipped out a dozen or so silver coins. “This will rent a room for a night or two while d’Artagnan recovers.”

Jeremie mouthed the words to himself, then shook his head. “ _Monsieur_ , this is not valid currency. Do you have any Euros? A credit card? Yvette, can you translate?”

“Those are the same words in Latin, Jeremie.”

Olivier frowned at them. “These are real silver, honest coin, I swear to you. I don’t have any gold about me, but surely there is an inn which can be had for this much.”

“No, but you can come home—”

Yvette grabbed Jeremie’s arm and pulled him aside. “No. No, no, no, no, no!”

“Then I’ll take him to my parents in Lille.”

“Jeremie, you can’t just up stakes and wander off for the sake of this....” She became conscious of Olivier’s eyes on her. “ _Gentleman_.”

“I can and I will. Even if he’s faking, his friend needs help, and if you won’t let me take them home, I will just have to go somewhere else.”

Oh, she hated him when he was stubborn like this. “One night.”

“Two. The doctor said two.”

“We’re not giving them money.”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Okay. Two nights and then out they go.”

Jeremie grinned and hugged her. Yvette turned around and found Olivier staring intently at the metal sign on the wall near them. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just wondering if I could find somewhere to go to sleep.”

“Not here, but later. Are you tired?”

He gave her a wry smile. “No. But if I fall asleep in this dream, then I might wake up in reality, and then this will all be over.”

“But I can see you and I’m not dreaming...oh.”

He smiled again. “You see my point.”

“I wish it _was_ a dream,” she said fervently. “Because it makes no sense to me.”

“Then there are two of us confused. Will your gentleman friend return soon to d’Artagnan? My brother will be confused by this dream we are both in. Unless I am dreaming he is injured and really, he is safe back in the Garrison with my friends, as am I. I hope that’s true.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, unable to not feel a little sorry for him. He sounded so miserable. And it wasn’t a dream, unfortunately. “Jeremie? Are you going back inside?”

“I’d better. I’ll meet you in there. They said he’d be twenty minutes or so, but then the doctors need to check his X-ray.”

“Go. I should get Olivier some water, at least.”

“Good idea. Here, Athos, take this.” Jeremie handed him the bundle of weapons, and headed to the doors.

Olivier watched Yvette with a cocked head, obviously having understood some of the conversation. “Water? Is there a well near by?”

“Something better. Come with me.”

She found a vending machine near the waiting room. Olivier waited patiently, either no longer surprised or, more likely, still convinced he was dreaming and just letting everything wash over him. She bought a bottle of water and took it out of the machine. “There.”

He stared at it without taking it from her. “What is this?”

“Water.” She took off the top and let him sniff it, then sipped a little to prove it was safe. “Here, try it.”

He took it gingerly, then tasted it, his eyes going wide. He gulped down a few mouthfuls before handing the bottle back to her. “This magic is astonishing.”

“Wait until you see the privies.” She read his expression. “Oh. You want to see the privy?”

“The privies aren’t close by, I hope. Aramis says that’s dangerous for injured men.”

“Um....” Did she want to have this conversation now? “Let me show you.”

She found the WCs close by. She deciphered the male and female symbols for him, which he understood easily enough, then snuck into the male toilet, which fortunately was a single cubicle. She locked the door. “Privy.” She lifted the lid, then flushed it to show how the waste was removed. “The Romans used flowing water.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. Then, you wash your hands.” She turned on the tap. “Hot. Cold.” Now he was frankly disbelieving. “Just try it. Then you can dry your hands here.” She showed him the automatic hand dryer.”

“Incredible.”

She took the bundled cloak and weapons from him. “I’ll...uh...let you get on. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

She bolted outside and kept guard. She realised she was now responding to him as if his delusion was real, but damn it, _he_ believed it so thoroughly, what else could she do? Forcing him out of it could be dangerous.

She needed to talk to someone who could talk to Jeremie and this Olivier, someone who could explain the sheer impossibility of what Jeremie believed was happening. Pierre was the man for the job, if he was back from his parents after New Year. She sent him a text to ask him to call around to their apartment as soon as he was back, or at least call.

Olivier only took five minutes, and emerged with damp clean hands, so he had managed to work all the ‘magic’ just fine. “This is unbelievable,” he said, looking at them. “The waste goes into the river?”

“Not immediately. It’s taken by pipes to be treated and made safe, then it goes into the rivers.”

“And this doesn’t cause disease?”

“It _prevents_ disease. Clean water means no cholera, dysentery, typhoid. We wash every day, and wear clean clothes every day.” She couldn’t help being rather pointed about this, since his manly odour was a lot more _compelling_ than most men’s, and mixed with the smell of horses. “By the way, where is your mount?”

“Er...I don’t know. I fell when the lightning hit. D’Artagnan’s bolted. Aramis and Porthos went after them. They are most likely at the garrison now.”

“Okay.”

“What is this expression ‘ _au qué_ ’? Is it Italian?”

“American. It means...agreed, or all right.”

“American? You mean from the English colonies? Or the Spanish?”

“Um.”

He smiled kindly at her hesitancy. “Please do not trouble yourself, _domina_. I wish to see d’Artagnan, if you please.”

“Right. Yes. Let’s go in.”

******************************

Clean water out of bottles made of a substance as light as paper and strong as leather. A privy without odour or dirt. Hot and cold water from a pipe, and warm air without a fire. The best argument Athos had against this being a dream is that he simply didn’t have the kind of imagination or knowledge to imagine such things even created by magic. Nothing he had seen thus far was remotely like anything he had ever fantasized about. He doubted even _Aramis_ had fantasized about them, and Aramis was legendary for the inventiveness of his fantasies.

So should Athos pretend this was reality, and behave accordingly, or give up and assume he would wake up in his proper time and place—most likely in the dirt of the king’s hunting grounds, if his brothers had not collected him? D’Artagnan was injured either in a dream or reality, and Athos did not have it in him to walk away if there was the slightest chance the injury was real.

So he followed Yvette back into the glass and stone infirmary, and waited with her for Jeremie to join them. What was happening to d’Artagnan, he didn’t understand. But these two young people seemed kind, well-intentioned and educated, so he had to put his trust in them. Causing a fuss and barging in to find his brother would likely not assist matters.

Yvette handed him the water and he drank more of the marvellous pure fluid. Now his thirst and his bladder were both appeased, he could concentrate more easily.

It was not long before Jeremie returned, a somewhat more aware d’Artagnan at his side. Athos rushed to take his brother’s arm and support him. “How are you?”

“Better. Head hurts. They gave me medicine which helped.”

“Opium?”

“No. I don’t feel drowsy.”

“Good.”

Jeremie smiled at them. “We don’t use opium for head injuries,” he explained slowly. Athos’s ear was gradually becoming attuned to the man’s peculiar accent, even if many of his words made no sense.  “But you need to rest, Charles. We will take you to our home so you can do that.”

“Why can’t we go back to the garrison, Athos?”

“I can’t explain that because I don’t know,” Athos admitted. “Let’s just go with Jeremie and Yvette for now.”

“Yvette?” D’Artagnan noticed her for the first time, and bowed. “D’Artagnan of the king’s musketeers, at your service, _mademoiselle_.”

“Thank you,” she said. No lectures about titles for _him_ , Athos noted. She and Jeremie had a quick, quiet discussion, then she turned to Athos and spoke in Latin again. “Our home is some way from here. There is a system of transport which goes underground, and is very fast. Will you and Charles remain calm?”

“Of course.” He had no idea how that could work, but having no idea had become normal for him.

Huge machines that moved more quietly than a carriage a third the size, without a single horse or man pulling them. _Underground_. Carrying dozens, even hundreds of people. The air was fresh even after climbing a long way down stairs, the speed astonishing. Athos simply did not have the training to even dream of such things. Besides, his dreams were always about people he knew, dying horribly. Or killing him horribly. Or them all dying horribly together.

Not about silver chariots in Pluto’s kingdom, or messages sent through plain air.

A lot of it had to work by clockwork, he thought. And a good system of pipes could explain the conveyance of water and waste here and there. But the light without a single candle? While being cool to the touch? What about this amazing bottle he had put in his pocket? How could he explain _these_ things by clockwork and pipes?

D’Artagnan was as surprised as he was by the ‘Métro’ as Yvette called it, but his head injury was making him slow and dulling his usually keen mind. Fortunate, really. Athos had no way of answering the questions the lad would have.

It was some relief to emerge above ground again, however amazing the machines had been to ride upon. What he saw when he emerged were very tall, unornamented houses, many people of all colours, and many more of the horseless conveyances. The absence of horseshit, offal, and human and animal waste on the streets made the air conspicuously sweeter smelling than in Paris. It felt warm for January, though it was still unpleasantly cold in his coat sleeves. D’Artagnan shivered in his cloak, and Athos would be glad when his brother could be wrapped up in a blanket on a cot, able to sleep away the effect of his injury.

“Where is this place?” Athos asked.

“Issy-les-Moulineaux,” Yvette told him. “Seven kilometres from the centre of Paris.”

“About two leagues,” Jeremie explained.

Two leagues by a carriage to carry that many people, or even a quarter that number, would take much more than half an hour by Athos’s reckoning. “Incredible.”

“Welcome to 2017,” Yvette said.

“What?” D’Artagnan looked up. “Athos, what does she mean?”

“I’ll explain later,” Athos lied. “Madame, he really needs to rest.”

“This way,” Jeremie said. They walked about the same distance as from the palace to the Garrison, to stop in front of an impossibly tall building, taller than the tallest church spire Athos could recollect.

“You live in this thing?” he asked Jeremie.

“Yes, we do. Don’t worry, we have elevators.”

Athos bit his tongue. Going “What? What?” all the time would make him sound simple-minded and he didn’t have a head injury to excuse it. But it was hard to conceal his alarm as they stepped into a small room, little bigger than a confessional, and he felt a sensation of rising.

Yvette smiled at him, as if she expected his surprise. Athos did his best to compose his features—but his attempt utterly failed when they emerged from the box. Going to a window, Athos found himself almost among the clouds.

“My God!”

D’Artagnan made the mistake of looking down. “How the....” He reached the sword he wasn’t wearing. “Are these two devils? How have they brought us here? Why—”

“Calm down,” Athos said, putting his hand firmly on his brother’s shoulder. “They are not devils. Though what else they might be, exactly, I don’t know.” Yvette lifted an eyebrow at him. He smiled as serenely as he could in response.

“Our apartment is this way,” Jeremie said.

People could not live so high, surely. But then lights could not be made without glow worms or fire, so if one was possible, the other could be too.

He had a headache from trying to accommodate all these amazing things inside his poor brain. Aramis would cope much better, living so much in his imagination.

The apartment was more like a small house inside this tower, and although all the furniture was strange and made of materials he barely recognised, he could at least tell chairs from tables, books from shelves. Humans still needed certain essential items even in this land of the future—or wherever it was.

Yvette sniffed at the two of them, then gave her lover an unspoken hint. Jeremie cleared his throat. “Er, d’Artagnan, you might like to have a shower before you rest. I’ll fetch some spare clothes for you.”

“Shower? Of rain?”

“Artificial rain,” Jeremie said, smiling at the lad.

“What for?” Olivier asked.

“To clean yourselves. You, uh...we prefer to bathe much more often than yo’re used to.”

“If you insist,” Olivier said. “But how does artificial rain help?”

“Come and I’ll show you.”

Athos took his brother’s arm and encouraged him to go along. The ‘bathroom’ held not only a privy and sink with the ever-so-convenient hot and cold water available at the turn of a handle, but also a tiny bath, and the ‘artificial rain’ Jeremie had mentioned.

D’Artagnan stared at it all in open-mouth astonishment. “Am I dreaming, Athos?”

“Possibly. But then we are in the same dream, which I think is less likely.”

“You might want to help him, Athos,” Jeremie said. “He mustn’t slip and hit his head again. I’ll bring clothes and towels for both of you, and towels. We can wash your....” He stopped and regarded their uniforms. “Are you wearing underclothes?”

D’Artagnan clutched his jerkin closed. “Why do you want to know?”

“So we can wash them. They’ll be dry by this evening, but you probably should wear modern clothes while you’re here.”

“But how—”

Athos forestalled the question and the explanation. D’Artagnan was addled enough without Jeremie making it worse. “I’ll take charge of it. Thank you.”

Jeremie nodded and left, shutting the door behind them. The room was pleasantly warm though there was no fire anywhere in the apartment, or in the room. “I don’t understand any of this,” d’Artagnan complained. “And my head bloody hurts.”

“You took quite a blow from Hercules’s hoof. Strip. We can wash together.”

There were bottles of strong but pleasantly scented lotions, and one of them foamed in Athos’s wet hand, so he thought it was likely used in bathing as soap. He turned on the ‘shower’ as Jeremie had shown them, yelped when the water became scalding, but worked out that it could be adjusted without difficulty.

He urged d’Artagnan under the warm stream of clean water, and the comfort from the heat soothed some of the lad’s agitation. He took obvious delight in using the strange soap, cleaning himself from foot to scalp.

“I understand why they like to bathe so much,” d’Artagnan said. “I’d bathe every hour if I had this rain to use.”

“It would be tempting,” Athos said. He hung their clothes on the hooks in the wall, then joined d’Artagnan in the tiny bath to stand under the stream of water.

“My God,” he said with a groan, as the warm water hit his aches and sore muscles—the battle at the abbey and the long rides of just two days before had left him with the usual annoyances, which he usually ignored. This magical, effortless stream of water relieved soreness he hadn’t even realised he was carrying.

“We’re going to smell like one of Madame Ange’s girls,” d’Artagnan said, sniffing himself.

“Perhaps that’s the norm in this world.”

“But where _is_ this world?”

“Paris, or so they say. Don’t ask me to explain. I have no answer for you.”

Jeremie arrived at that moment, with towels of a thickness and softness Athos had never seen, even when he lived at La Fère. Jeremie grinned at their twin expressions of pleasure and surprise. “I take it the bathroom is a nice surprise?”

“It must be a dream, or else you are wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice.”

“Neither. D’Artagnan, these should fit. Underwear, shirt, trousers, and this is a fleece.”

“No, it’s not,” d’Artagnan said with the authority of a farmer. “I know sheep, and goats, and that is from neither.”

Jeremie laughed. “That’s quite true. But that’s what we call them. Just put the underwear on for now. Athos, these are for you. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Athos said, fingering the fabric of these strange clothes. The ‘fleece’ was nothing like wool, but was soft and warm to the touch.

“I’m not. I’ll just throw up again,” d’Artagnan admitted.

“Never mind. Yvette is making the bed up for you now. I’ll bring a robe for you.”

D’Artagnan looked green again, and when Athos had helped him put on the skimpy ‘underwear’ which even Madame Ange would probably consider too lewd for her house, he told his brother to sit on the privy lid with the towel around his shoulders.

The clothes, though strange in material, operated much as Athos would expect, though there were seams where he did not expect them, and the opening of the trousers....

“How the devil does this monstrosity work?” he grumbled when he realised the opening closed not with buttons or ties or laces, but a kind of metal strip.

“Pull that,” d’Artagnan said, pointing to a toggle at the bottom of the strip.

“Yes, but how can that...oh.” The strips united, and then parted when the toggle was dragged down. “Cunning.”

“Demonic,” d’Artagnan muttered.

Jeremie came back to the room. “Here we are,” he said, offering d’Artagnan a robe of similar material to the towels, just as soft and warm. “Leave your things there, we’ll sort them out.”

Jeremie took them to a room crowded with boxes and shelves, but which also held a large, clean bed. “You can rest there, d’Artagnan. Athos, you too, later, if you don’t mind sharing. Otherwise—”

Athos held up a hand. “Sharing is fine. Get some rest,” he told his brother. “Call if you need help.”

“Our weapons?”

“In here with you,” Jeremie said, pointing to the bundled cloaks on top of the boxes. “Please don’t use them. Carrying weapons is illegal and will make people panic.”

“As you wish.” D’Artagnan lay on the bed. “Athos, even the king does not have a bed as soft as this.”

Athos smiled. “That is most likely true.”

“You can get under the covers, you know,” Jeremie said. He went over and pulled back the blankets, revealing fine sheets, top and bottom, and no sign of bugs, lice, or mice either. “I’ll leave the door open. We’ll hear you if you yell.”

“Thank you, _monsieur_...?”

“Jeremie Thibaut, at your service.”

“Thank you, _Monsieur_ Thibaut. Even if you are a devil, I am willing to forgive you for a bed such as this.”

Jeremie laughed in delight. “That’s good to know. Athos?”

They left Athos’s brother to find some rest and relief from his sore head. Out in the main part of the apartment, Athos smelled something delicious. “Yvette is a wonderful cook,” Jeremie explained, “when she has time. We’re both on leave at the moment.”

“Leave...from?”

“Oh. I work at the Sorbonne. The university. I lecture in early modern French history. Yvette has a graduate degree in European languages from there, but she works as a translator for a company here in Issy-les-Moulineaux.”

Athos only understood about half of this, and what he did understand, made no sense. “History...at a university?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if to himself, “that’s right. They didn’t teach that at universities in your day. They do now.”

“When were women allowed to study at one?”

“Not as long ago as they wanted to,” Jeremie said cryptically. “But I don’t want to break your brain. Let’s eat and then we can discuss what to do with the two of you.”

******************************

Jeremie came in as Yvette turned off the stove. “Pierre is coming over this afternoon. I asked him to,” she told him.

Jeremie stopped collecting bowls and cutlery. “Why?”

“Because someone needs to explain to you and Olivier that it is not _possible_ for those two to be time travellers.”

“I don’t care if it’s ‘impossible’,” he said impatiently. “It’s true. He’s not faking. You should have seen them in the bathroom.”

“It’s an elaborate prank.”

“On who? And to maintain it with a concussion? Please, Yvette. Apply Ockham’s razor.”

“What about applying Sherlock Holmes? ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

Jeremie was not a fan of the English detective, as she well knew. “His creator lived before the invention of mobile phones and computers. He would have dismissed those as impossible too.”

“That’s not my point, and you know it.”

He started picking up the things they needed to eat with. “Let’s have lunch. I don’t have an explanation either, but those two men are not faking. I’d stake my life on it.”

“You may end up doing that if you give them back their weapons.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, charging out of the room. She followed more sedately with the _boeuf bourguignon_.

Olivier was now dressed in modern clothes, and looked as ordinary as any other white French man. “That looks very good,” he said politely as she set the pot down on the table. “Where are your kitchens?”

She pointed. “Through there. Jeremie, the bread?” She went to the side cabinet to look for a bottle of wine to go with the food. She wasn’t going to waste the best stuff on this nut.

“You have a cooking fire in that room?”

“A stove. Run by electricity.” He stared at her. “E-lec-tric-it-y,” she said, mocking him, before switching to Latin. “Don’t they have that in fantasy Musketeer land? You do everything manually? Make your clothes by hand? Go everywhere by horse or foot?”

“Yes. I seem to have made you angry, _domina_. I’m sorry.”

The thing is, he really did look sorry. And he had such a lovely, honest smile, and a sweet voice. What was the _point_ of this game? She answered him in French. “Do you count on kind Parisians taking pity on you so you can mooch on them? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yvette,” Jeremie said, returning from the kitchen. “D’Artagnan’s head injury was real.”

“Yes, but we don’t know how he got it. For all we know, he fell down while he was drunk.”

Olivier slowly stood, his eyes cold. “Is there a reason you invent such calumnies against my brother, madame?”

Jeremie put the bread down. “Both of you, stop it. Athos, Yvette is merely suspicious of this very strange situation. Yvette, Athos is not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say he was, but I think he might be a scrounger.”

“A _scrounger_?” The steel behind the pleasant voice made her shiver, and she moved closer to Jeremie. Olivier bowed. “Never fear, madame. I would not harm you, however much you abuse us. But I demand to know why my courtesy is responded to so rudely.”

“He has a point,” Jeremie said, but he put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. “Athos, please, can’t we just eat? Please, Yvette?”

She handed him the bottle of red table wine she had chosen, and sat down across the table from Olivier. He continued to regard her disapprovingly, until Jeremie twisted the cap off the wine bottle, and poured a glass for her.

“Where is the cork?”

“Most wine bottles don’t have them any more. Certainly not the less expensive wines. Here, try it.” He poured a glass of wine for Olivier, who sniffed it. “See? It’s not turned.”

“No, indeed.” He lifted it and sipped it, his eyes widening again. “But this is magnificent!”

“It’s an eight-euro bottle of Beaujolais from Carrefour,” Yvette said dryly, rolling her eyes.

“Yvette,” Jeremie murmured.

“He’s being ridiculous.”

“Actually, it’s not bad for the price. And the wine you would get in his Paris in an inn would probably be pretty nasty.”

“Yes, but—” She stopped, and heaved a sigh. She lifted her wine. “To Carrefour.”

“To Carrefour,” Olivier echoed. “Whoever he may be.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered.

******************************

Despite her intense scepticism, the meal turned out to be rather pleasant. Provided she and Jeremie spoke slowly and skipped slang or words of recent origin, Olivier followed their conversation well enough with only the occasional need for her to translate into Latin, and once she explained words he claimed not to understand, he got them readily. His thirst for knowledge was deep, and his brain far from feeble. As a former count, he would have had a good, if not first-class education, and obviously he had continued to acquire learning even once he had left his former life behind.

Or so he pretended, she had to remind herself. Suspending her disbelief became disturbingly easy.

He loved the food and the wine, and the bread was softer and finer than he had ever had, he said. The cheese impressed him as well. When Jeremie suggested coffee, and maybe one or two chocolates left over from the Christmas feasts, Olivier shook his head. “Such luxuries are too much for me. Keep them for your treasured guests. Are you sure you are not wealthy?”

Jeremie grinned. “Coffee and chocolate can be afforded by all but the most miserably poor, Athos. In fact, France runs on coffee and hot chocolate.”

“Just put the kettle on and stop turning everything into a history lesson,” Yvette said irritably. “Pierre will be here in an hour or so. I’ll just take a look at Charles.”

“D’Artagnan?” Olivier said, rising.

“Sit down. I can tell if he needs anything.”

Charles was curled under the covers, looking no older than the twenty she judged him to be. His messy hair fell over his admittedly model handsome face, although his expression told her he was in pain, even in his sleep. There was a bruise blooming around his left eye and forehead.

She returned to the living room. “Sound asleep,” she said. “I do hope you have a proper home to go to after this. Even after two days, he will need to be careful.”

Olivier’s scarred lip twitched. “You sound like Aramis. We never let him coddle us. Treville wouldn’t stand for it.”

“You realise Treville is fictional too, right?”

“ _Yvette_.” Jeremie was really annoyed now. “Dumas wasn’t writing an authoritative history.”

“Tell me more of these books,” Olivier said. “I have no idea why he would choose us to base a story of any kind upon. We aren’t famous or important.”

“Or real,” she muttered on her way to the kitchen to make the coffee. “Jeremie, why don’t you show him the Wiki entry?”

She had just put everything on a tray, including the ‘luxury’ chocolates, when she heard a cry. She ran out to the living room, and found Olivier glaring furiously at the tablet, while Jeremie leaned over him. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremie said. “Athos, what’s wrong?”

“All of it. The slander on the queen is simply revolting. And that’s not how I met d’Artagnan or how he came to Paris. He and his father encountered the cardinal’s agents while travelling to see the king, and his father was brutally murdered. He thought I’d killed his father—a scheme of the cardinal’s to have me blamed and hanged, to destroy the regiment. I was arrested, not d’Artagnan.”

He stabbed his finger at the tablet. “There was no letter to Treville. We’re not Béarnese. Porthos is from Paris, and I am from La Fère in Picardy. Aramis, to be sure, I don’t know precisely where he’s from, but I don’t think he’s from Bearn. Rochefort disappeared from Paris years ago, and d’Artagnan has never met him, for which I am grateful. And the description of him with my wife, and Constance...I beg you not to show that to him or his rage will be unconfined. How could he have even known of Anne...Milady? And d’Artagnan has never been to London, or England, nor in Essart’s company.”

He turned to Jeremie. “Why print such lies? Why choose us as the vehicle for this trash? We are nothing important. And to write such lies about the queen, a virtuous woman?”

“There were many rumours about her lovers, not just in this book,” Jeremie said.

“An Englishman? An English noble? Ridiculous.”

“So, no lovers?” Jeremie said, sounding a little disappointed.

Olivier suddenly looked a little shifty. “To know of such and do nothing about it would be base treason.”

Which didn’t sound particularly convincing, but Yvette believed he was genuinely upset about the Duke of Buckingham plot. So who _had_ been Anne of Austria’s lover, that Olivier would—

Oh God, she was doing it again, treating the lunatic as if he wasn’t crazy. “What are the other mistakes?”

“It would be easier to list what is true. He gets the names right. The rest....” Olivier shook his head with a moue of distaste. “Fantasy.”

“You would know,” she said, unable to stop herself. Jeremie gave her a disappointed look. She went back to the kitchen to fetch the coffee, and brought it back to the table. “Here. This will cheer you up.”

Jeremie poured the coffee, and passed a cup to Olivier along with the plate of chocolates. The man took the coffee, though he still seemed worried it was too much for the likes of him. He sipped the coffee.

“To your refined taste?” Yvette asked. Jeremie tsked at her.

“It’s very good. Not as bitter as that I have tried before. It’s drunk very little in Paris, even at Court. Her majesty is said to enjoy it, but doesn’t insist on it.”

“Try the chocolate,” Jeremie urged.

He bit into it daintily. “My God. It is exquisite.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Yvette. “Though perhaps it is so ordinary to you that my praise is ridiculous again?”

She flushed. She had been rude, no matter what the truth of it. “These are very good chocolates. A gift from my parents for Xmas.”

“Obviously people of excellent taste and breeding,” he said with a slight bow. Was he laughing at her?

“Yes, they are,” Jeremie said. “What about your parents?”

“Dead, these ten years past. They died within a month of each other, from influenza.”

“I’m sorry.”

Olivier shrugged. “A common sorrow, unfortunately.”

“How did La Fère come to burn down?”

Olivier set the coffee down and avoided Jeremie’s eyes. “My wife. I closed the house when...after she...I mean, when I thought she was dead. I did not return for five years, and not by choice. Porthos was badly injured in a skirmish while we were on a mission for his majesty and the estate was the closest place where he could rest and Aramis tend to him. Anne....”

He frowned. “I still don’t know how she came to be there. I remained while the others left for Paris.”

“Why?” Yvette couldn’t help herself.

“Trying to lay my ghosts. Only I found one of my ghosts wasn’t as dead as I thought her. She found me in the house that night. I had...I was drunk. I thought I was dreaming. She had a torch, and I woke to find her setting fire to the house. She was shocked to see me as I was to see her. She wasn’t trying to kill me. Not then, at least.”

“She left you in the house?”

“She heard d’Artagnan calling, and ran away. He...saved my life. Again,” he added with a slight quirk of his lips. “The house was destroyed. I can’t say I care.”

“And she’s still alive?” Jeremie asked. “In your time?”

“Yes, unfortunately. She has just tried to have her majesty assassinated. She and the Cardinal have caused much mischief.”

“Why would he want the queen dead?”

“Babies,” Yvette said. “Remember? Anne was thirty-five before she had a living child. Louis wouldn’t have had a son and heir.”

“Thirty-five? Another seven years, then,” Olivier said. Did he sound relieved? What did he know?

Fuck, she was doing it _again_.

“Was that the reason?” Jeremie asked.

Olivier shrugged. “In truth, I don’t know. But we have to stop it happening again.”

The intercom buzzer interrupted Olivier’s surprisingly realistic-sounding concern. “That’ll be Pierre,” Yvette said as she stood. “He’s early.”

She pressed the door release, and waited for her friend to come up to their floor. “Yvette, darling, Merry Xmas,” Pierre said, handing her a bottle of wine.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” she scolded.

“Saves me drinking myself to death. So many people gave me booze. I don’t know what that says about me. Hi, Jeremie. Oh, hello,” he said, spotting Olivier, offering his hand. “I’m Pierre Michaud.”

“Athos...Olivier d’Athos,” their guest amended, shaking Pierre’s hand. “Honoured to meet you, _monsieur_.”

“Coffee?” Yvette asked. “You’re early.”

“Sorry. And yes, please.”

He waited until she had fetched another cup before asking, “So, what was so important you needed to summon me?”

“We have a problem,” she said, pouring him his coffee. “We met Olivier here, and his friend, in the Tuileries. He says they’re from 1630. Athos and d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers.”

Pierre burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. They expect you to believe that....” He stopped at Olivier’s glare. “They do expect you to believe that.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeremie said. “She’s not presenting that fairly.”

“I haven’t said a single untrue thing,” Yvette protested. “All we have is their word for it.”

“And the linguistic oddities, the clothes, weapons, and the confusion.”

“Yes, all that,” she said. “Role playing.”

“No, it’s real.”

“And this is where you come in, my dear Pierre,” she said in exasperation. “Tell them that time travel is impossible.”

“No, it’s not.” She stared at him. “We’re all travelling through time, every second.”

“Oh, ha ha. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. It’s impossible to jump four hundred years in less than four hundred years with our current technology, and we doubt it will ever be possible. Though that doesn’t mean it _never_ will be.”

She folded her arms and eyed her lover and their guest. “There you go. Pierre is a scientist—”

“Sorry...what is that?” Olivier said.

“A savant. A mathematician and astronomer,” she said, pretending to take him seriously. “An expert on the science which supposedly brought you to our time.”

“Ah. A philosopher of science?”

“No,” Jeremie said, “more a gatherer of knowledge. Of science.”

“Ah, yes,” Olivier said, nodding in understanding. “From _scienta_ , 'to know'.”

Jeremie murmured to Yvette. “The word ‘scientist’ was only coined in the nineteenth century. Why would he know it?”

“Because he’s faking!”

Olivier scowled, Pierre frowned, and Jeremie sighed. “Pierre,” Jeremie said, “let me tell you why _I_ think he’s not.”

Olivier sat politely and listened as Jeremie told their friend the weird tale. “Interesting,” Pierre said to Yvette’s annoyance, who expected—wanted—him to dismiss it out of hand. “And do you think his 1630 is our 1630?”

“I don’t understand,” Jeremie said.

“Well, does his account match what we know of it?”

“Not in every respect. He says Dumas gets everything wrong—”

“And that Treville, Porthos, and Aramis are real people and in the real Musketeers, when we know they weren’t,” Yvette added.

“He says the location of La Fère—his home—in this time, isn’t where his home was. Same with the nearest village.”

Pierre scratched his beard. “What about his clothes? Coins? Are they genuine?”

“Of course not!” Yvette snapped.

Jeremie held up his hand. “They look genuine to me. I’ll get the coins. Athos, do you mind if I look at your coin purse?”

“Not at all.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while Jeremie left the room, Pierre looking at Olivier with undisguised fascination, Olivier bearing it with a blank expression, and Yvette out of patience with the lot of them. “More coffee?” she asked, to break up the quiet.

“Sure, that’d be lovely,” Pierre said.

“If it’s no trouble,” Olivier added.

“It’s not like I have to travel to the Americas to collect the beans,” she retorted.

“One moment, though,” Olivier said, holding up his hand. “Do slaves still work in the plantations in the Americas? Where the coffee grows?”

“Of course,” she said sarcastically. “We’ve made no advances in human welfare at all.”

“Then, forgive me, I shall refrain from consuming more of it,” he said, his mouth turned down disapprovingly.

“She’s joking, Olivier,” Pierre said.

Olivier pursed his lips. “That is a very poor sort of joke madame. Porthos would take it very hard. His mother was a freed slave.”

“They had white slaves?” Yvette said.

“Yes, in some places, but his mother was black. As is he.”

She threw up her hands in disgust. “Now you ask me to believe the Musketeers had _black_ recruits.”

Olivier could deliver quite the evil eye for a supposedly well-bred man. “ _One_ black recruit. Porthos has had to fight for every advance, every chance he’s had. Many resent him, though not in our regiment. Treville would never stand for it.”

“Stand for what?” Jeremie said as he returned with the little leather pouch.

“Insults to Porthos on account of his skin,” Olivier said.

“Apparently Porthos is the son of a freed black slave,” Yvette said. “Who knew?”

“Dumas was the son of a famous French general, who was the son of a noble and a black slave,” Jeremie said. “Dumas was sold as a slave but finally freed, and also rose to become a famous general. Didn’t you know that, Yvette?”

She flushed in embarrassment. “No, I didn’t, but—”

Olivier was nodding. “Ah, so that explains why he picked out Porthos for his book.”

“Porthos isn’t black in the books!” Yvette exclaimed.

“Isn’t he?” Jeremie said. “His colour is never noted.”

“But we know he was white.”

“How?”

Yvette felt rather stupid. “I’ll get more coffee,” she muttered, and fled into the kitchen.

******************************

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and Olivier felt confused, a little angry, but also sad that he should be the cause of disharmony between a loving couple, even if not married. “Please, _monsieur_ ,” he said to Jeremie. “Do not hold it against her. The situation is difficult for all of us.”

“Kind of you,” Jeremie said.

“Such small matters are unimportant. What is important is to know how d’Artagnan and I will return to our time and place.” He had turned to Pierre. “ _Monsieur_?”

 “That’s a very difficult question to answer. First, Jeremie—the coins. Are they real?”

“They’re real silver or close enough to fool most people. But the design looks wrong. Let me check.”

He pulled over the device on which the words about this Dumas had appeared, and made arcane motions on its surface. Athos had heard of witchy practices such as scrying and divination—he had to, the better to root out witches and demons in his position as a magistrate, although he had never pursued a single case—but he had never seen them done, let alone so casually and shamelessly. “Are you not afraid the authorities will arrest you for sorcery, _monsieur_?”

Jeremie sat up, startled. “Whatever for? Oh, the ai-pad? That’s not sorcery.”

“Ai-pad?”

“Never mind. It’s not magic, Athos. It’s science. And we don’t arrest people for sorcery anymore. It’s considered barbaric.”

“I certainly agree with you on that,” Athos said with feeling, thinking of Ninon de Larroque. “No witch burnings?”

“Not in France. Or in Europe or America. Not for centuries.”

“Europe,” Athos repeated slowly. “Europa...I don’t understand.”

“The term for all the countries together, like France, Germany, Spain, Holland, Portugal, Switzerland and so on.”

“Ah.”

“The coins?” Pierre asked.

“Oh yes.” Jeremie turned the device around to show the pictures upon it. “They’re similar to the actual coinage but the head is wrong.”

“The coins show our king, Louis XIII,” Athos said. He pointed to the images. “Those coins are wrong.”

“Why would role players go to the trouble of minting coins that were correct except in the most important detail?” Pierre asked.

Yvette had returned to the room. She looked at the coins on the table, and at the images. “And replicate the wear? Is that possible?”

“Forgers do that kind of thing,” Jeremie said. “But no forger would deliberately get the face wrong on a coin they hoped to sell.” Athos nodded, for this was correct. He had encountered false coin a time or two, and the face of the king was the one thing that was always convincing.

“So, do you want to hear my theory?” Pierre asked.

******************************

Yvette poured coffee for all, and took a cup herself. “Go on.”

“Ever heard of the multiverse theory?”

“Science fiction?” Jeremie said.

“No, science theory. Schrödinger proposed that there are several possible universes, all existing at the same time, but we can only observe one at a time. That was what the famous Schrödinger’s cat experiment was to demonstrate.”

Yvette saw Olivier repeating “cat?” in a confused murmur, and felt some sympathy for his plight. “What has this got to do with these two?”

“Time travel is impossible now, and I would say it always will be. But travel between alternative, parallel universes may be as simple as stepping from one to the other. We literally have no idea. We will never be sure if the other universe exists, or how we would go from one to the other. At least...I _thought_ we would never be sure,” he added, looking intently at Olivier.

“A parallel universe...identical to ours?” Jeremie asked.

“Could be. Could be the same as ours only with everyone having blue skin. Or where the Nazis won. Or the dinosaurs never died out. Or where life never evolved at all. We just don’t know. It’s still a theory, but one which has some high-powered supporters in the astrophysicist community.”

Olivier stood up. “Please excuse me. I think I’ll go and sit with d’Artagnan for a bit. This is all beyond my understanding,” he added with a little self-deprecatory smile.

Yvette couldn’t blame him. Once he had left the room, Jeremie said, “He told me that a lightning strike occurred just before he and d’Artagnan found themselves here. Could that have given them energy to jump across?”

Pierre grinned. “It’s not ‘Back to the Future’. The lightning may have had nothing to do with it. We just do not know how moving across would work, how much energy would be needed, if someone can survive doing so, or any of it.”

“How do we send them back? That’s the important question,” Yvette said.

“One I can’t answer. And if they did cross back over to another universe, it might not be their own.”

She put her cup down. “You mean, they’re trapped here?”

“I literally don’t know,” Pierre said. “Sorry. All I can say is that the multiverse idea is a lot more plausible, and explains a lot more inconsistencies, than time travel does.”

“That he’s making it all up explains everything too,” Yvette said. “Can’t you carbon date his clothes or something?”

Pierre shook his head. “Whether it’s time travel or multiverse crossover, the clothes would only look as old as the day he appeared in this time. Carbon-dating works on the amount of decay of an iodine isotope at a known rate over time. No significant time has passed either way.”

“And the accuracy of the costumes and weapons would only prove that the makers did meticulous research. Like a master forger would do—they could even use period materials.” Jeremie shrugged. “The rest could be excellent acting, or the real thing.”

“Exactly,” Pierre said. “I’m afraid you can only go with your instincts on this.”

“I think they’re fakes,” Yvette insisted.

“And I think they’re the real deal,” Jeremie said just as firmly.

“Then you have a problem,” Pierre said. “The only thing you don’t have to worry about is changing the course of history, since they can’t be from _our_ past. But it might have buggered up theirs.”

“Oh, good, this time Milady won’t have to die,” Yvette said. “And maybe Constance won’t either.

“But the queen will,” Jeremie pointed out. “And so will anyone else those two happened to have saved in their future.”

“ _If_ they’re not fakes. Anyway, it’s still not our problem. You can’t even use them for research, Jeremie.”

“Sadly not. But I’m not going to abandon them. The least I can do is help them set up new lives here in Paris.”

“They’ll probably end up in prison as potential terrorists, since they don’t have any identification or papers.”

“Probably,” Pierre said, before standing. “Fascinating as this is, I have to meet someone now. But if they leave, I’d like to keep in touch with them. I’m going to bounce some ideas around with colleagues to see if there’s a way we can verify their story, or get them home.”

“What do I tell them now?” Jeremie asked. “Is there any chance they could just step through to their time and place?”

“Every chance, or none,” Pierre said with a shrug. “All I can say is that they should be aware it might be possible, while being warned it’s probably impossible.”

“Great,” Yvette said. “That’ll go down so well.”

“If they’re fakes, it will,” Pierre said. He bent and kissed her cheek. “ _Ciao._ ”

Yvette let him out, and closed the door. Jeremie poured himself more coffee. “Now what?”

“Does it matter what I say?”

“Yes, of course it does.”

She folded her arms and stood her ground. “Then I say we send them on their way once Charles is recovered enough to do so. I’m not supporting two strangers based on a crazy story they could have made up to con people.”

“They’d be as helpless as babies, Yvette.”

“Fine. Then take them to the police. Or to the town hall, or the church. That’s not a bad idea, you know. A church is the perfect place to help them. They can sell those costumes, the weapons for a decent price if they contact the right people.”

“Perhaps.” Jeremie’s air of disappointment was getting on her nerves. She wasn’t a heartless cow just because she didn’t want her home taken over by nuts. “I said I’d wash their underclothes. Excuse me.”

Yvette exhaled in irritation and began clearing up. They’d be fine, she insisted to herself. People were streaming into France from Syria and other places with less than nothing, and surviving. These guys were white, spoke French, were healthy apart from Charles’s head injury—they already had more advantages than most. Maybe she and Jeremie could give them a few Euros to buy a meal or something, but that was it. She wasn’t going to be taken for a fool. She’d had enough of that while she was a student. Being too generous had blown back on her a couple of times until she learned to wise up.

There were more than enough people in the world in genuine need. These two could look after themselves.

******************************

Athos checked d’Artagnan’s colour, temperature, and pupils, the way Aramis had taught him, and, so far as he could see, his brother was simply soundly asleep. He didn’t often see the lad like this. When they were together sleeping outdoors, they were always coming off or about to go on watch, so no one slept hard, and since d’Artagnan stayed in  the barracks when they were not out on the road, and Athos had his own room near the garrison, he had no idea what was normal for him.

The bed was indeed sinfully soft, the covers warm and light, somewhat like the ‘fleece’ Athos was wearing. This world held such wonders. Could it be that no one died of disease any more? That poverty was forgotten? Was everyone now happy and equal?

A country without a king, though. How very odd. Who made the decisions? A council of nobles, perhaps? And Yvette had not only a good education, but now worked for pay in her own right. Women lived a much better life than in his Paris.

Lulled by the soft bed, the warmth of the flat, and d’Artagnan’s steady breathing, Athos dozed despite himself. When he roused, the murmur of conversation had ended in the other room, and was it a door opening and closing that had woken him? He forced himself to wake properly, checking on d’Artagnan’s colour again, before walking out.

Jeremie and Yvette were in the kitchen. She was stacking dishes, and he was feeding Athos and d’Artagnan’s underclothes into yet another machine. “ _Monsieur_ Michaud has left?”

His voice made Yvette jump. “Yes, he’s gone,” she said, her expression sullen.

“Did he have a suggestion as to how we might go home?”

“No. Nothing. He can literally think of nothing to help you. So whether you are play-acting or really from another time and place, you’re out of luck and you’ll have to find somewhere to live in this time and place.” She wouldn’t look at him as she said this.

“Very well,” Athos said, refusing to show how distressing this news was to him. “May we still stay until d’Artagnan—”

“Yes, yes. His injury is the only thing we _can_ verify. But then you go. Both of you.”

He bowed. “As you wish, madame.”

“Athos?”

“Yes, Jeremie?”

“We want to help you but....” He shot a look at his mistress. “There are many people who need help.”

“In this world? With such wealth and wonder? Your science hasn’t created universal happiness?”

“Sadly not. But while you’re here, we can at least talk about what you two can do once he’s fit. _Au qué_?”

“As you wish. What are you doing with our clothes?”

“Washing them.”

“Ah. You have another amazing machine?”

“Yes,” Jeremie said with a little smile. “No more rocks for us. I see d’Artagnan’s hose is in need of darning.”

“Yes, sadly. Madame Bonacieux used to do that, and mend his shirts, but the two of them have had a falling out. Her husband has ordered her to break with D’Artagnan, and she has done so. He is a poor seamstress, though.”

“Who darns yours?”

“I pay the woman who does my laundry.”

“No darning for the comte de La Fère?” Yvette said in a tone Athos did not care for.

“I didn’t learn that skill, no. Though Aramis is handy with a needle and will mend and darn as neatly as any needle worker, and Porthos is nearly as capable.”

Yvette turned. “Looks like you’ll have to learn to live without servants, _monsieur_ _le comte._ ”

“Indeed. You have replaced them all with your machines.”

“He’s not wrong,” Jeremie said, in a rather strange turn of phrase. “Athos, I’m sorry, but I have nothing to clean your leather clothes with.”

“Do not trouble yourself, _monsieur_. They can only be wiped, and oiled occasionally, like the boots. If their state offends, I will attend to them.”

“They can stay in the bathroom for now.” He closed the door on the laundering machine, and made it groan and wheeze. He didn’t seem alarmed, so Athos could only assume this was normal. “Come and sit with me. I want to know more of what you can do, so we can start on finding your work.”

Yvette remained in the kitchen, and closed the door behind them. “I have offended your lady,” Athos said. “How might I make amends?”

“Don’t think you can,” Jeremie said quietly. “She encountered people while she was a student, who took advantage of her generous nature, and hurt her badly. She is wary now of anyone she thinks might do the same.”

“Ah. That’s unfortunate. But we’ll be gone as soon as d’Artagnan can leave, I swear on my honour.”

“I believe you.” Jeremie smiled. “But let’s see what you have in the way of saleable skills. What can you do?”

“Fight with sword and hand to hand. Ride. I read Greek, speak French, Latin, a small amount of Spanish, and a little Gascon, Italian, and English. I know English the best of those three.”

“Good. What about making things?”

Athos wrinkled his brow in confusion. “I’m not a craftsman.”

“All right. Can you shoe a horse?”

“If pressed to it. I know a little of leatherworking, weaving, milling, and so on, but only by watching others. I know the manners at Court. Have you replaced your king with something similar?”

“Unfortunately, yes, but I don’t think you’d fit in with the President’s coterie.” At Athos’s expression, Jeremie explained, “A ‘president’ is a democratically elected head of state. Usually democratically elected.”

“Democracy? As in Athens?”

Jeremie smiled a little. “Um, not very similar to Athens. All citizens over the age of eighteen, male and female, whether landowners or not, may vote for our president. The Athenians excluded all but a very small number of people from the vote.”

“And this system works?”

Jeremie shrugged. “Better than any alternative. The closest thing we have to absolute monarchs are dictators, and they tend to run countries very badly.”

“Not so different from a king, then,” Athos said. “You understand to say this in my time, would lead to my execution.”

“Same as in most dictatorships. Louis is a bad king?”

“Yes.” It was freeing to be able to say it out loud. “He’s not a bad _man_. Weak, spoiled, frightened of intrigue and plots. Considering his mother and her behaviour, that’s not surprising. But as king, he’s capricious, uninterested in the welfare of his subjects while demanding their love, and his ability to manage our relations with other countries is too much governed by his whims. Richelieu is more competent but entirely without conscience. He is an evil man.”

Jeremie leaned forward. “This is all so fascinating, you know. Even if your world is not the same as ours, it’s amazing to be able to ask you, as someone living under a version of Louis, what it’s like. Yet, you are loyal to him?”

“Of course. He is the king. But while we obey and honour him, my friends, as indeed I, save our love for the queen. Captain Treville is fond of his majesty though. He’s known him since childhood, and used to tutor him in the sword.”

“Wow.”

Athos stopped short. “Er?”

“Sorry. It’s an expression of surprise. So you could teach swordsmanship?”

“Of course. It is a regular part of my duties at the garrison. I should also mention that d’Artagnan is much handier than I am in the mundane skills of a farm and managing horses. He’s also a superior rider, and nearly as good at the sword as I am. You smile, _monsieur_.”

“It’s just, I already knew that from Dumas’s books. Even if he got so many things wrong, he got that part right.”

Athos inclined his head. “My brother is destined for greatness, if we can keep him alive so long.”

Jeremie laughed. “I know the type. Normally I’d suggest one of you entered the army, but without papers or a formal education in this time, there’s no hope of that. The lack of papers will stop you gaining employment. I’m afraid that unless you resort to illegal methods, you may have to live in a legal limbo for the rest of your lives.”

Not an appealing prospect. “We could go somewhere less governed by the law. The Americas, perhaps?”

“Um, things have changed there too. I can’t think of many places where you could live without papers, and without papers, you could never fly to them anyway.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “‘Fly’? Now you are jesting with me, _monsieur_.”

“Come and see.” Jeremie took him outside the apartment and over to the windows, which overlooked a vast area covered with buildings and towers such as the one they were in. “There.”

To Athos’s wonder, a distant silver object was indeed travelling slowly across the sky. “That is incredible.”

“You know, I have to agree, even though I know how it works. To carry six hundred people thousands of kilometres in safety and relative comfort is truly a modern miracle and has changed our world.”

 _Six...hundred?_ “How...can you have a world capable of this, and yet there is poverty? If you can do such amazing things, why is it not possible to make all people happy?”

Jeremie’s expression became solemn. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? It’s because we are human, and humans are frail and irrational.”

“In four hundred years, you have found no answer to _that_ problem?”

“Oh, we know the answer. We just don’t want to use it.”

Athos nodded in understanding. “Just as the king knows that to reduce the number of refugees and disaffected, he should cease brawling with other countries, and reduce his luxuries. But then he would not be the king in his imagination. One must have much, so many others must have little. This has not changed? How unenlightened.”

“You can say that again,” Jeremie said, then held up his hand. “Uh, it’s just an expression.”


	2. Chapter 2

Yvette hid in the bedroom while Jeremie and Olivier were outside. This was supposed to be a day alone for them, after so much time spent with their families and working so hard before that. Now these two idiots had stolen it from them, and all Jeremie wanted to do was talk to Olivier and swallow his bullshit.

She opened her laptop and started answering emails. It was easy to lose herself in that, and in reading links that her friends had sent, but it wasn’t how she wanted to spend one of her precious days off with Jeremie.

He came in an hour later and sat on the bed next to her. He cupped her face and kissed her, which she allowed, but she didn’t reciprocate. “You’re angry.”

“I thought we were going to have a nice day together at the Louvre and in Paris.”

“I’m sorry.” He put his arms around her. “We could still go out. They’ll be all right by themselves for a couple of hours.”

“And then we can come back and find the place stripped of everything we own. It’s happened to me before.”

“I know.”

If he started talking about these two again, she’d hit him. But he didn’t. He cuddled her, and eventually she put the laptop away so they could lie together and he could fondle and kiss her properly. “I want to make love to you,” he whispered

“What if—”

“If one of them walks in, I’ll behead him. Okay?”

She laughed. “Okay.”

******************************

Languid and satisfied, Yvette was content to lie in Jeremie’s arms afterwards, letting him play with her hair and kiss her temple and cheeks. “I do love you,” he murmured. “Why won’t you marry me?”

“It’s so old-fashioned. All it says is that one of is scared the other will run away without the tie of a wedding.”

“But it’s not true.”

“Then you don’t need to marry me.”

“Hoist by my own petard,” he said ruefully.

“Yes. If I ever agree to marry you, then you’ll know our relationship is in trouble. Or I’m pregnant.”

“Is that all it takes?” He pretended to pounce on her.

“No! We agreed. Not for another two years. Then we can afford it.”

“All right. I hate being practical.”

“I know. I hate being poor, that’s all.”

She heard the door of the other room open. “Sounds like Charles is up.”

Jeremie started to move. “I’ll go.”

“No, I want to use the loo. You can get up if you want, though. Make some tea?”

“Okay.”

She found Charles standing in the middle of the living room, wearing Jeremie’s bathrobe. “How do you feel?”

“Better, thank you, _mademoiselle_.”

“Do you have a headache?”

“A little.”

“Thirsty, hungry?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“That means he’s in a lot of pain, quite hungry, and very thirsty,” Olivier said, climbing to his feet. “Sorry, he tends to understate his own welfare,” he added.

Charles made a face at him. “Athos.”

But Yvette had to admit that the boy looked ropey. “I’ll bring you some pain relief, and fetch you something to eat. Olivier...Athos knows where the water is.”

Ffrom the kitchen?” Olivier asked. “It’s safe to drink?”

She did her best to hide her irritation. “Yes, of course. Jeremie, please show them how to get a glass of water, would you?”

“Of course.”

She used the loo, and when she returned, Charles was seated next to Olivier on the sofa, leaning on him, holding a long glass of water. “Jeremie, did the doctors say he could have paracetamol?”

“Yes,” he answered from the kitchen. “Not aspirin.”

“Okay.” She fetched some from the medicine cabinet and handed them to Charles. “For your headache.”

“What is this?” he said, taking them from her.

“Medicine. It’s safe, I promise. Wash it down with water.”

“Thank you.” He swallowed them and grimaced. “What’s in them?”

“Chemicals extracted from coal tar,” she said, for the reaction. His eyebrow went up nearly to his hairline. “Perfectly safe as long as you don’t take too many.”

“If you say so.”

“Does bread and cheese sound good? There’s a little stew left, or I can make you some soup.”

“Bread, please. Maybe a little soup?”

“I’ll bring it.”

“Can I assist you?” Olivier said, about to rise again.

“No, look after him.”

She went into the kitchen, where Jeremie was preparing a pot of tea. “What does he want?”

“Bread and some soup. There’s some chicken soup in the cupboard.”

“I’ll sort that out. You go sit.”

“Thank you, darling.” She kissed his cheek.

In the living room, Olivier was showing Charles one of the children’s books they kept for the nieces and nephews when they visit. “I thought you would be looking at the history books,” she said to Olivier.

“Ah, I wanted to, but the print is too small, and my glasses are back...over there.”

“You wear glasses?”

Charles grinned. “He does, and Aramis makes fun of him over it.”

“Yes, damn the man. For all that he’s older than me, he has perfect eyesight, blast it.”

“Older? But in the book—” She stopped herself at his expression.

“We have already established the book is quite wrong about us,” he said politely.

“What book?” Charles asked. “And you haven’t told me how we get back to Paris. Our Paris.”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Olivier said, giving Yvette a pleading look. “Apparently, we became famous enough for someone to write a book about the four of us, though it’s full of nonsense and incorrect on almost every count.”

“I’d like to see it. But I think my head hurts too much to read,” he added mournfully.

Athos huffed at his friend. “Then you must be in a lot of pain, if you’re prepared to admit that.”

“Yes, a bit. Though that medicine seems to be working. Thank you,” he said to Yvette.

“No problem. I have an idea. Would you like to see...a play made from the book?”

“I don’t think we’re fit to go out,” Olivier murmured.

“You don’t have to.”

“Ah, you have a machine. They had a device for everything,” he confided to Charles.

Yvette searched their shelves for the film. “[The most faithful version](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072281/synopsis?ref_=tt_ql_stry_3) is in English, but I have a French dub.”

“What is she saying?” she heard Charles whisper. “Is it another language?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Olivier said. “Also, this book is somewhat slanderous towards her majesty, so don’t become upset. The author apparently knew nothing of us but our names.”

“Then why...? Athos, would this make more sense if I didn’t have a head injury?”

Yvette grinned at Charles’s rather endearing confusion. “Not really,” she answered as she straightened up. “We can stop it at any time if you want an explanation or a translation.”

“D’Artagnan, have some soup.” Jeremie set a tray down before the lad. “Tea’s coming. Are you going to show them that silly movie, Yvette?”

“Why not? It’s not really their history. It’ll be fun.”

“Are you well enough for this, d’Artagnan?” Jeremie asked.

“Yes. Though I should get dressed. Forgive me for my lack of modesty, _mademoiselle_.”

“I’ve seen legs before, Charles.” The boy went red. “You are dressed well enough to sit in a house and watch television.”

“It really _is_ another language,” Olivier said in a stage whisper to his friend.

“‘Television’ is from the Greek,” Yvette said.

Olivier frowned in concentration. “‘Τηλε—far, and ‘όραμα’—sight. ‘See far’? ‘Far sight’? ‘Far seeing’?”

“More or less,” Yvette said. “Information—pictures and sound—is sent from one place to another place a long way away.”

“By the flying machines?”

“Flying?” Charles’s voice squeaked.

Olivier put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This, too, can wait until tomorrow.”

Jeremie dropped a rug over Charles’s knees which solved the problem of warmth and modesty. Yvette put the DVD on. Charles’s quiet gasp as the images appeared on the DVD didn’t appear faked, and if Pierre was right, they weren’t.

Olivier didn’t look too surprised though. “You’ve seen this before?” she asked, certain she had caught him out.

“Madame,” he explained patiently, “were I to give vent to all my amazement, I would do nothing else. At this point, if you were to turn into a horse or disappear in a puff of smoke, I would simply wait for Jeremie to explain that this, too, was down to science and yet another astonishing machine.”

Jeremie chuckled. “We’re not _that_ advanced. Not _yet_.” Yvette glanced at him. “Well, we _are_ working on teleportation.”

“That’s true,” she said. Olivier smiled politely, though his lack of comprehension seemed genuine. “So you’re going with the flow now,” she said to him. “Like a leaf on a river.”

“Yes. Very apt. Given that I have no control at all, what more can I do.”

“Will someone please tell me how any of this is possible?” Charles complained, his eyes confused and his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“After we watch this, and you eat and drink,” Jeremie said. “It’ll help you feel better.”

“Listen to him,” Olivier told his friend. “Or pretend you’re dreaming. That works too.”

Charles hunched up under the blanket. He was miserable, that much was clear. Yvette had a sudden urge to give him a hug, but stamped firmly on that. No feeding strays, she told herself. Not even concussed ones.

The film began, and after a brief exclamation of shock from both their guests, they settled down to watch.

“Wait! My father didn’t send me to Paris. He came with me! That’s how he was murdered,” Charles said in distress. Yvette hit ‘pause’. “What is this nonsense?”

“Be calm,” Olivier said, gently gripped the lad’s arm. “It’s based on a ridiculous book. I told you.”

“But why would he lie about me?”

“Because he didn’t know the truth. Please don’t upset yourself.”

Yvette restarted the film. They were silent for all of five minutes.

“Rochefort wasn’t with my wife. She murdered the man who was,” Olivier said, his mouth tight.

“And that challenge never happened,” Charles exclaimed. “That’s not how I met Milady! This pretender is an idiot. Who the hell is Rochefort anyway?”

“A bastard I hope you never meet,” Olivier said darkly.

“Maybe I should turn it off,” Yvette said.

Olivier raised his hand. “Please, let us watch. We’ll be quiet.”

The two behaved, although she heard Charles whisper to Olivier, “That looks nothing like Porthos. Porthos is—”

“We know,” Yvette said.

He jerked up. “My apologies, _mademoiselle_.”

“You did fight with all of us, though,” Olivier murmured, grinning at Charles.

“Not like that. I’m not _that_ stupid.” The boy hid his sulky expression under the blanket again.

The whispered comments kept coming.

“His form is dreadful.”

“Do we even know anyone called Planchet?”

“Are those supposed to be Red guards? In those uniforms?”

“Stealing food? You would _never_ —”

“Hush, I know I wouldn’t.”

“That’s not Constance.”

“Bonacieux? My God!”

“Wait, are they saying her majesty is having an affair with an _Englishman_?”

“The real king is much more handsome.”

“But no brighter.”

“Huh. If Constance fought with Milady, I hope she’d do better than _that.”_

Yvette was amused, and Jeremie listened to their guests more than the film, grinning at the pair of them and their outrage. When it was over, Charles had eaten all the food, and drunk two cups of tea. He looked better, though his disgust at the fictional version of himself and his friends was clear. “I’ve owned pigs that fight better than those ‘Musketeers,” he said.

“I _trained_ pigs who can fight better than that,” Olivier agreed. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” Charles turned to Yvette. “Uh...thank you, _mademoiselle_. That was....”

“Interesting,” Olivier said when his friend couldn’t find a polite adjective.

“There’s another movie which is the second half of the story,” she said. “But I think it would be upsetting.”

“Why?” Charles asked.

“What happens to Milady?” Olivier asked, no longer smiling.

“She dies,” Yvette said.

“How?”

“ _That_ Athos pays for her to be executed by beheading.” When the man continued to stare at her. “She kills Constance by strangling her.”

Charles made a sound of distress. Olivier’s mouth went tight. “It is, of course, only fiction.”

“Of course.”

Charles buried his face in the blanket again. “More tea?” Jeremie said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “We have some pastries left over from Christmas.”

“Excuse me,” Charles said, trying to stand.

“Where are you going?” Olivier asked, not letting his young friend get up.

“The privy.”

“Let me show you how it works. Excuse us, please.”

Olivier took Charles out and to the bathroom. “Um,” Jeremie said.

Yvette collected the cups, and couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to upset them. I thought they would think it was funny.”

“They did. He would have asked at some point. The fictional Athos was all consumed by his wife. This one doesn’t seem quite so bad.”

“At least, not in front of us.”

Jeremie picked up the teapot. “Yvette....”

“What?”

“They have no papers. No marketable skills that I can see. I don’t know what we can do to help them. Athos is so sad underneath it all. He’ll go if we insist, I can be sure of that. Just as I’m sure they’ll probably be arrested in an hour.”

She shooed him into the kitchen and shut the door. “But if they stay, what will we do with them?”

“What you said about the church is a good idea, but it will take time. If we can find a charity....”

“Who takes universe-hopping seventeenth century Musketeers?”

His shoulders drooped. “Exactly. But there might be someone who can help. They don’t want to be here any more than we want them here. Can I not have a little more time to do what’s right?”

She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Your heart is too big, darling. But as you wish.”

“Thank you. I won’t let them exploit us.”

“I won’t let you let them.”

“No, don’t. Shall I make more tea?”

“I think you should. Charles needs the fluid.”

The two men were back in the living room when Yvette returned. Charles was rather red-eyed, and Olivier, solemn. “I’m sorry to have distressed you,” she said.

“As you say, it’s fiction,” Olivier said.

“It just reminded me how much I miss Constance, even if she doesn’t love me any more,” the boy said.

Olivier looked at her over Charles’s head, his wince telling her how raw and recent this wound was. “Perhaps you’ll fall in love again,” she said.

“I don’t _want_ to love another! Constance is the most beautiful, the bravest, the finest woman I could ever wish for. No one else compares, not even Milady, though she thinks she does. I’m right, am I not, Athos?”

“Constance is a pearl of great price,” Olivier said. “But a pearl married to another.”

“Bonacieux’s a fool and not worthy of her.”

“Can’t she divorce him?” Yvette asked.

Jeremie came in as she said that and set the tray down. “No divorce in those days, darling. Only annulment.”

Charles struggled to sit up. “I don’t care if she’s still married. I love her!”

“Yes, but _she_ cares,” Yvette said. “She would be treated as a slut if she left him for you.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her,” he muttered.

“But the world would,” Olivier said kindly, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Madame, _monsieur_ , now would a good time to explain what your friend said.”

Jeremie took a seat. “Have some tea while I talk,” he said. “The pastries need eating up.”

Olivier took the hint and offered a plate to his friend who only took it out of duty, it seemed to Yvette. Charles was used to obeying his older friend.

While they ate and drank, Jeremie explained, in the simple, clear manner which made him such a good teacher, the theory of multiple universes, and how Pierre had said no one knows how one passes between the two. “If we just crossed over so simply, why can we not cross back?” Charles asked.

“You might be able to, for all we know.”

“Then why are we still sitting here, Athos?”

“Because you’re injured and I suspect if it was that easy, then this Paris and our Paris would exchange hundreds, if not thousands, of people every year.”

Yvette was rather impressed by him understanding that. “There’s no reason to assume it wouldn’t work, I suppose,” Jeremie said.

“Then we should go back to that spot,” Charles said. “At once.”

“Calm down,” Yvette said. “If the opportunity exists, then it will be there in the morning.”

“How do you know?” the boy asked.

She bit her lip. “Uh. I don’t.”

“Call Pierre,” Jeremie said. “Ask him what the chances are.”

“Don’t forget he said they might end up in some other universe,” she said as she pulled out her phone. “One which could kill them immediately.”

“I would rather be dead than live in a world without her,” Charles said.

“I don’t wish to be that dramatic,” Olivier said, “but there’s little chance we can survive independently here. A quick death might be preferable to a life lived on sufferance.”

“No one has to _die_ ,” Yvette said. “I’ll call him.”

Pierre picked up at the first ring. “Ah, my sweet, what’s wrong?”

“What you were saying before...if our guests went to exactly the same place, do you think they could cross over?”

“No idea. Worth a try. I suspect nothing will happen, but this is out of my experience.”

“Are they likely to go to another universe altogether?”

She waited while he thought. “My hunch is,” he said slowly,” that if two universes intersect at a particular point, then others would not. But we just don’t know.”

“Would waiting another day make a difference?”

“I don’t know. If it’s too late, it was probably too late even seconds after they arrived. Waiting may not make any difference. But one thing to consider—if they come from that world, it might be easier for _them_ to go back, than it would be for one of us to cross over for the first time.”

“So maybe the lightning did make the push?”

“Could be. When it comes to multiverses, everything and anything is possible. So give it a try, and good luck.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“My pleasure.”

She closed the call. “He says he doesn’t know, but it’s worth a try, and waiting a day to two will most likely make no difference one way or another. Charles, you may as well wait until the day after tomorrow. Have a couple of good nights’ sleep, give your head a chance to heal a little more.”

“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly.

“You are not. I’m ordering you to wait,” Olivier said.

“Only Treville can order me around.”

“Do you want to put that to the test?” Olivier’s voice remained calm, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow, but Charles backed down immediately.

“Then we will return to the Tuileries on Friday morning,” Jeremie said. “Give Charles the time the doctors wanted. In the meantime, you rest, stay calm, and stay warm. Okay?”

“What is ‘okay’?” Charles asked.

“It’s English for ‘all right’,” Olivier said, as if he had known that for years.

“Then, okay,” Charles agreed with a polite smile at Jeremie.

“And if it fails, we’ll do everything we can to get you set up in this world.”

“That’s kind,” Olivier said. “But if we can’t go back, maybe we should....”

“Kill yourselves?” Yvette asked when he didn’t finish. “You value your lives so little?”

“Mine is forfeit for my sins,” he said. “D’Artagnan makes his own choices.”

“I won’t let you die,” the boy said, clutching at Olivier’s fleece. “I won’t.”

“Good man,” Jeremie said. “Drink the tea, d’Artagnan. It’s good for you.”

Yvette’s suspicions were melting away under Charles’s honest reactions, and as she watched how the two men supported each other. Olivier was a mess personally, but he wouldn’t allow Charles to suffer for them, and Charles wasn’t going to stand by and let Olivier lose himself in his sad memories. “Can I ask you something, Athos?”

“Of course.”

“Will you let Milady live?”

He inhaled sharply, and Charles glared. “Why do you ask him such a thing? Is that the kindness of this world?”

“I’m sorry. The Athos of the book had her hanged at the age of sixteen for wearing a criminal brand she’d been hiding. But your story is different.”

“My Anne wasn’t branded.” Olivier’s voice was bleak. Charles put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and maintained his disapproving stare. “Not sixteen, but twenty-four when I married her. I was under no illusion she was an innocent maid, but I loved her for all that, even with the lies she told me. But she killed my brother when he threatened to expose her past to me. What was I to do? I could hardly let her escape, and other nobles would have condemned her same as I would. I regretted it then, I regret it now.”

“She was a criminal, and she’s a spy and a murderer now,” Charles said.

“The cardinal is a murderer too. No court in the land would touch him,” Olivier said.

“But he tried to kill the queen,” Charles said. “We have to stop him trying again.”

“Yes.”

“Would you kill Milady to save the queen, Athos?” Yvette asked.

His green eyes were like chips of ice. “Yes. If it came to that, and there was no other choice”

“If Constance comes to harm through Milady, she will not escape my sword,” Charles bit out. “And Athos will not stop me.”

“I wouldn’t even try, if she harmed Constance.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Jeremie gave Yvette a rueful look. “Time to change the subject, love.”

“Okay. How about showing them some of the world that was unknown or unexplored at their time?”

“Good idea.”

“Are you awake enough for this, d’Artagnan?” Olivier asked.

“Of course.” The boy sounded insulted his friend had to ask.

“We aren’t usually given this kind of time to recover,” Olivier explained to Yvette. “Even after three of us were caught in an explosion, and this one already had a head injury, Treville only allowed Porthos and me two days with our cracked ribs, and d’Artagnan three days. Aramis was furious.”

“That was unkind of Treville,” she said.

“It’s the king’s fault,” Charles explained.

“No, the cardinal’s,” Olivier corrected. “If any of us are missing because of illness or injury, he twits Treville in front of the king about how inadequate the regiment is. Treville has to fight all the time just for the right for the Musketeers to survive. Richelieu wants us to merge with the Red guards.”

“I would rather die,” Charles said.

“That’s the other option,” Olivier said, his mouth quirking. “His eminence isn’t fond of us or Treville.”

“He sounds a complete bastard.”

“Such _language_ , madame,” Olivier said, straight-faced. Yvette had to grin at that.

She chose a recent nature documentary, one which showed lots of exotic fauna and landscapes. Even now, many people were unaware of the richness of nature, but in the seventeenth century, far fewer had the chance to explore.

Jeremie opened the wine Pierre had brought, though, since Charles was forbidden from drinking alcohol, he had hot chocolate instead, to his delight. Being sat on a sofa next to her lover, cosy and warm, watching television, was far from the worst way to spend a miserable winter evening. It had begun to snow outside, and Yvette was rather glad that Charles’s injury meant he was not allowed to venture out that night. She chose not to think about the probability that their guests would not be able to leave as easily as they arrived. She and Jeremie would deal with that when they had tried and failed.

This time there were no muttered ‘idiots’ or ‘what the devils’ coming from the other sofa. The two men watched with increasing amazement and delight, and when the documentary was over, Yvette put on another. Her guests seemed just as entranced as by the other, but when she looked over as the credits rolled, she found Charles was fast asleep, his head on Olivier’s shoulder.

“He’ll be sorry he missed any of this wonder,” Olivier whispered.

“We don’t have to move him,” she murmured back. “Are you comfortable?”

“More than in a long time,” he said. “I have friends and my duty which I must return to, but I shan’t regret this interlude, though I will never be able to tell a soul.”

“Do musketeers have holidays?” Jeremie asked, refilling Olivier’s glass and then Yvette’s.

“A day here and there, on feast days. Or when one of us is injured more than usually severely. Even on Sundays, because the king needs protection every day, we must be on duty.”

“Ouch. I think I prefer our time. Every weekend, and four whole weeks a year for ourselves.”

“What’s a weekend?” Olivier asked.

“My God,” Yvette exclaimed. “I don’t know what’s worse about your Paris—the lack of time to rest, or the lack of washing facilities.”

“François I banned bath houses [in the sixteenth century](http://www.economist.com/node/15108662),” Jeremie said. “They were thought to increase the body’s susceptibility to disease. Actually, he wasn’t wrong about that. Roman bathhouses were lethal to anyone with an open sore or wound, and I suspect the later ones were no better.”

“But not to bathe at all? How disgusting.”

“Some bathe regularly,” Olivier said. “Especially women.”

“Every day?” Yvette said.

“Why would you need a bath every day?” he asked, confused.

“Oh God.” Yvette felt grimy if she didn’t shower at least once a day, and in the summer, twice. How could people back then have borne it?

“Don’t forget every bucket of hot water has to be drawn from a well, heated on a stove, and carried to the bath,” Jeremie pointed out. “It takes a lot of labour and time.”

“So long as one wears clean linen, and has clean hand, face, neck and, er....” Olivier stopped, glancing at Yvette, apparently not wanting to scandalise her by mentioning certain parts of the body.

“Yes, clean ‘ers’ are very important,” Jeremie said, grinning at them both. “But wound infections killed more people than swords or bullets directly.”

“This is true,” Olivier agreed. “Aramis is steadfast in insisting we wash all wounds with wine or brandy, and keep them clean and covered from miasmas. Not many physicians follow his methods, but he’s kept we four healthy, and Treville tells all in the regiment to do the same.”

“Wise man,” Jeremie said. “Yet he doesn’t know why? Where did he learn this?”

“He is an adherent of [Paré](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ambroise_Par%C3%A9), and also refers to the teachings of [the blessed Hildegard](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hildegard_of_Bingen). He’s always reading, seeking to improve his knowledge. His methods are sadly of no use if the bullet remains buried, though, and even his best stitching can’t save a man who’s been gutshot.”

“That remained largely true until less than a hundred years ago,” Jeremie explained. “Until we discovered antibiotics.”

Olivier mouthed the word. “Against...life?”

“I think I’ll give you some things to read tomorrow,” Jeremie said. “Even if you can’t share them when you return, you’ll find them interesting.”

“I don’t have my glasses to read small print.”

“Oh, I can make the print bigger.”

Olivier sighed. “Let me guess. You have a machine.”

“Yes, actually, we do.”

“Is there anything left to discover in this world?”

“We haven’t colonised Mars yet,” Jeremie said. “Although we’ve sent vehicles there to photograph it.”

Olivier’s expression was priceless enough for Yvette to whip out her phone and take a photo of it.

******************************

Athos was tired in mind, if not in body, when he retired for the night, wearing borrowed bed clothing from Jeremie he called ‘pyjamas’ since he did not have another robe to lend him. D’Artagnan had woken up again as supper was being discussed, and had eaten a light meal of part of an omelette and toast (of course there was a machine to make _that_ as well.) Yvette had entertained them both very well with more of the beautiful moving images on the ‘television’, and appeared to take a delight in astonishing them with more and more tales from lands as yet undiscovered or little explored in Athos’s own time.

They could never talk about what they had seen and learned with anyone beyond their own brothers. Perhaps Treville, but no one else. Richelieu would greatly enjoy having them condemned for witchcraft, and anyone else would consider them touched, even dangerously insane. But Athos would never forget all he had seen, for all he yearned to return where he truly belonged, for d’Artagnan’s sake as much or more than his own.

“Athos, if we can't go back....” d’Artagnan murmured.

“We’ll talk about it then.”

“But what will happen to Constance? And the queen?”

“Aramis and Porthos will defend them both. I have every faith.”

“But if they don’t? History will be changed if the queen dies because we weren’t there to protect her. Or if the king were murdered.”

“History changes all the time, d’Artagnan. Every word we utter, everything we do or don’t do, every one who meets us, or who dies by our swords, changes it.”

“Do you think in this world, Milady really killed Constance?”

“In this world, neither Milady or Constance ever existed.  Their Athos is fictional, as are Aramis and Porthos. Only their d’Artagnan was real, but nothing like you at all, except for being a brave soldier.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” the lad said. “Did you mean what you said about Milady? About not killing her? She still killed your brother.”

Athos put his hand around the locket he wore. _Her_ locket. “I...I can't live through it again. Killing her won't bring Thomas back.”

“What about Porthos’s plan?”

“It should not result in her death. The target is the cardinal, not his pawn.”

“But in that story—”

“That story is arrant nonsense. Put it out of your mind. Anne has no reason to go near Constance. It's me she hates, me she wants to destroy, and everything else she does is for Richelieu. You, Constance, are nothing to her or her plans. We will not allow the innocent to suffer through this venture.”

D’Artagnan went silent. Then Athos heard him sigh. “Even if she never wants me again, just to be in the same world, the same city, and to know she is safe, is enough.”

Athos doubted that. He patted the lad’s shoulder. “We will know whether we can return soon enough. Until then, rest, heal, enjoy the wonders of this world while we can. Fretting won’t change the outcome, and only make your head ache and annoy our generous hosts.”

“All right. Why does Yvette wear a wig indoors, do you think?”

Athos smiled. “Why not ask her? She seems to be well disposed towards you.”

“She's a clever woman. Too clever to accept a life as a mistress, I think.”

“That is their affair. The mores of this world are not ours, and it is not our place to judge.”

“I only meant she deserves better.”

“She has an education, an occupation, and her lover bows to her reasonable wishes. She doesn't seem unhappy. Perhaps this is exactly what she wants. There are too many things we don't know, cannot even guess, about this world. Let them be.”

“ _Au qué_.”

Athos snorted. “Don’t take that expression back home with you.”

“I would take the chocolate. And the towels. Maybe the rain.”

“I would take the knowledge machines, or at least the books. The coffee is good. And the wine is excellent.”

“This mattress.”

“The fleece.”

“It’s a stupid name.”

“Yes, but a very practical garment.”

“Wouldn’t stop a sword slash.”

“No, but one could wear it underneath one’s armour. You are supposed to be going to sleep.”

“Then stop talking.”

 _Brat._ He took the hint and in very little time, d’Artagnan’s breathing slowed and deepened. It took Athos longer to feel sleepy. There were so many things to think about, to wonder at. He was so warm and comfortable, more than he had been since he last lived at La Fère. But comfort was no guarantee of happiness, and he’d walked away from it then. He could do it again. Honour and his brothers were more important than a soft, easy life.

But he would enjoy this brief interlude. Chance had offered him the opportunity to rest and reflect, so he would take it without shame.

******************************

Athos’s hosts were on holiday this week, they said—a concept foreign to him except as practiced by royalty—and were determined to give d’Artagnan and him as pleasant and educational a day as the two men could bear. An unhurried breakfast of the delicious hot chocolate and fresh bread after being allowed to sleep late, was followed by Yvette showing d’Artagnan more of the magical moving pictures while Jeremie let Athos explore this world’s knowledge to his heart’s content. D’Artagnan wore a device over his ears which allowed him to hear the sound from the television in apparent perfect quality, without anyone else hearing a thing. “‘Headphones’”, Yvette called them.

Jeremie concentrated on explaining two key concepts to Athos—the force known as electricity, which was ultimately responsible for the operation of all the astonishing machines which cooked, washed (dishes _and_ clothes), dried, swept, and entertained—and ‘germ theory’. The latter was relatively simple. Disease, he explained, was largely caused by three major factors—invisible organisms, poisons from plants and other material, and the body itself. “You already know to avoid adulterated food, unclean water, and lead,” he said.

“Yes, we do.”

“And you know Aramis’s cleaning of the wounds with alcohol helped stave off infection. In your time, without antibiotics....” Here he’d stopped and diverted his little lecture onto the subject of materials one could apply to wounds or swallow which would combat existing infection—“None of which is easily available in your time.”

“If you tell him to do three things—only use instruments, thread, and bandages which have been boiled or washed in neat alcohol, wash the wound thoroughly with recently boiled water and soap and clean his hands likewise before attending to the injured, and letting deep wounds drain before closing them while keeping them clean and bandaged—he'll have even greater success. The bacteria—” Another diversion to show Athos pictures of these tiny creatures that one could only see by the microscopes the Dutch were developing in Athos’s own time. “Can enter a wound with dirt or the sword or the bullet, or blown in by the air. Or through someone coughing or sneezing on the wound. So you stop it getting in, and you do your best to flush out what’s in the wound, and you go a long way to helping your injured survive.”

“Even such simple measures can be difficult in a battle, Jeremie.”

“Yes, I imagine. But our soldiers face the same problems, and deal with them in similar ways, though they have other advantages. The other issue is blood loss. The blood carries oxygen to the body’s organs and the brain. Lose too much and death is inevitable.”

“Yes, we know that. I warrant you have a machine to solve it, though.”

“Not a machine as such. But we have learned how to allow one person to donate blood to another. They have to match blood types, and you won’t have that ability for hundreds of years.”

“Can I not take this information back to our alchemists and scholars? Ah, of course not,” Athos realised. “All the other inventions have to come first. Electricity, the machines.”

Jeremie nodded. “Exactly. Hygiene needs no invention, and you won’t do any harm to your civilisation by suggesting Aramis wash his hands and his needles. But if you start blood transfusions, and try to create antibiotics in your time, not only will you fail because the other technology isn’t there to support it, you’ll probably be executed as a witch or worse.”

Athos mouthed the odd word Jeremie had used. “So I may stare at Pandora’s box, but not open it.”

“If you consider it has a glass lid, then yes.”

They talked a little more about the illnesses which plagued people of Athos’s time, and he learned that influenza was spread through dirty hands, coughs and sneezes, cholera was borne in shit-contaminated water, and malaria through mosquitoes, not bad air. “Unless you were breathing in smoke or dust all day, bad air didn’t really start killing large numbers of people until the industrial revolution got under way. Bad water is the killer of _your_ age.”

“Along with starvation, fire, flood, severe winters, and war.”

Jeremie had the grace to look regretful. “Yes, along with all that. But you, Aramis, your brothers, can do nothing about any of that. All I can do is give you information that might help you live a little longer, and live healthier.”

“You are a kind man, Jeremie. You both are. Kind and good people.”

Yvette flushed. “I’ve been horrible to you.”

Athos acknowledged that with a little dip of his head. “You were suspicious for good reasons. I can’t find fault with that, and I don’t hold a grudge of any kind.”

“Thank you.”

D’Artagnan removed the ‘headphones’. “It’s finished.”

“Another?” Yvette asked.

“Not for now, thank you.” He grinned at Athos. “Aramis and Porthos would never believe anything I’ve just seen.”

“Best not to tell them,” Jeremie said.

“We don’t keep secrets from each other,” d’Artagnan said. Athos winced. How wrong the lad was, and he had no idea.

D’Artagnan excused himself to use the privy. “What is it he doesn’t know?” Yvette asked in a low tone. “It’s about the queen, isn’t it?”

Athos blinked. “How did you...?”

“So it _is_ about her.”

“He can’t know,” he said somewhat frantically. “To know of it and not tell the king is treason. I don’t want him hanged for something he had nothing to do with.”

“She has a lover.”

Athos shook his head. “No. One night, a single dalliance. Bad enough, but not like in that story.”

“Porthos or Aramis?” Jeremie said.

“Aramis,” Athos whispered. “But I beg you, do not talk of it, or hint. D’Artagnan is bright, intuitive. He’ll work it out from the slightest clue.”

“We won’t,” Yvette promised. “Did he make her pregnant?”

“I pray to God he did not.”

“Our history tells of strong rumours that the king was homosexual. A sodomite,” Jeremie clarified with a wrinkle of disgust.

“I am unaware of such,” Athos said, “though the act doesn’t revolt me as it seems to upset you.”

“Me?” Jeremie pointed to his chest in surprise. “Oh no. I just hate that word. It was used as a time when a man who lay with another could be executed for a crime. Now men who love men can even marry, as can women who love women. It’s not a crime.”

“The Church has become surprisingly liberal in four hundred years.”

Yvette coughed. “Not exactly. But I didn’t mean to interrupt your lesson, Jeremie.”

Her lover gave her a wry smile. “Time for the student to take a break. Coffee?”

“Such luxury. I would never become used to it.”

Jeremie rose, presumably to prepare the drink. “You must have lived pretty well as a count,” Yvette said to Athos.

“We were wealthy, but I cared little for excessive display. I won’t pretend that we ate better, lived more comfortably than my tenants or the poor of Paris, but coffee several times a day? Chocolate at any whim? Baths every day? A mattress soft as a cloud, and blankets that my great-grandparents hadn’t used? Not in my household.”

“No, I imagine not. What was your wife like?”

Athos winced again. “You have a distressing obsession with this subject, madame.”

“Sorry. I’ve always felt sorry for her since I read that book. I know she was evil, but other murderers and spies lived. She was the only one who didn’t, because of that Athos’s hate for her. I wondered what she’s really like.”

“I never knew her. I don’t even know if she ever loved me. Everything she told me was a lie, she seduces and pretends to manipulate, she is a serpent in a doe’s form.”

“Ouch.”

“You would prefer a pretty lie?” he said gruffly.

“No. But she must have hurt you very badly.”

“That much, I thought, was perfectly clear.” Why did she have to ruin this day, this one, almost perfect day, talking of such painful things? Yet his bone-deep manners would not allow him to walk away, or silence her.

“I’m sorry. You must have loved her very much.”

“She broke my heart when she killed my brother. She broke my heart when she claimed he raped her. She broke my heart when I was forced to hang her and she died. Then she broke my heart when I discovered she was still alive, but more vile, more treacherous, more amoral than I could have ever imagined. Now there is nothing left of my heart to break.”

“That’s not true.” Yvette and Athos turned to look at d’Artagnan. “Athos, you have a great heart, full of honour and kindness, of loyalty, of brotherhood. Milady could not unmake the man you truly are.”

“Well said.” Jeremie stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “A man without heart would not be welcome in our home. Is that not so, Yvette?”

“Quite true. And if we know this, your brother soldiers know this, then believe it.”

“There is no place in my heart for love anymore.”

“Maybe not for a woman,” d’Artagnan said. “But there is love for us, for Treville, for France. You told me there was more to life than one woman, when Constance rejected me. You were right, Athos. You were right.” His brother came back to the sofa and wrapped his arms around him. “Don’t let her destroy you. She’s not worth it.”

“How can you be so young and yet so wise?” Athos murmured against the boy’s neck.

“I have good teachers,” he answered cheekily.

Athos snorted and pushed him away. “Enough. There is too much in this cup of wonder to drink from, and all too little time.”

“Agreed,” Jeremie said. He set coffee in front of them. Athos inhaled deeply. D’Artagnan was not as taken with the drink as Athos, preferring hot chocolate, with which Jeremie provided him.

“We’re growing spoiled,” Athos said to his brother.

“In a day and a half?”

Athos didn’t say it might end up being longer. What was the point of once again changing the mood of the conversation? “Tell me, in this world, is English food still appalling.”

Yvette smirked at him. “Of course. It will never be as good as ours.”

Jeremie disagreed. “It’s much improved. Their coffee is still atrocious, unless you are careful where to buy it.”

“They _have_ imported much of our cuisine. But they are still not French.”

Athos smiled into his cup. “A loyal Frenchwoman to the last, yes?”

“Of course.”

“When did you go to England?” d’Artagnan wanted to know.

“Not long after I joined the regiment. His majesty wanted a Musketeer escort for one of his newly married sister’s envoys returning to London, and to bring back confidential documents. Aramis was still recovering from the attack at Savoy, Porthos was doing the work of two and more men, and the regiment’s strength was well down. Treville asked if I could manage on my own, and I said I could. I spoke just enough English for the job. I spent two weeks in England, most of it in London, and I have never wished to return.”

“I dare say it’s changed a bit since your day, especially since so much of it burned to the ground in 1666,” Jeremie said.

“Truly? I’m sorry for anyone who was hurt or killed, but I can’t say I mourn the city itself.”

“Barbarian,” Jeremie said without heat. “All that history gone up in smoke.”

Athos shrugged. “I am sorry,” he said insincerely. “The food was revolting, tasteless and poor quality. One could not obtain a decent bottle of wine for its weight in gold, and to speak of the cheese....” Something clicked, and he looked up. Yvette had her speaking device up in front of her face. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a photo of your disgusted expression. It’s priceless.”

A puzzled d’Artagnan asked to see the device, so she showed him, and then Athos. He laughed at the face she had captured. “Portraitists are no longer employed, I surmise.”

“Not at all. They’re quite popular with the same class who’ve always used them. But cameras allow the common people to record their lives, and their actions. It’s an important part of social interaction. People share images, jokes, comments, and chat over these devices.”

“And they also allow anyone to look up whatever information they like, almost anywhere on the planet, while fitting in a top pocket.” Jeremie demonstrated.

Athos shook his head. “Do you people ever weary of such cleverness?”

“Some do, yes. But then we laugh at them.” Jeremie snorted. “Actually, the ability to carry a computer in one’s pocket is still something to be amazed by. ‘Computer’ is the thing which makes so many devices so useful,” he explained. “When they first became available commercially, a single one would fill a large basement, yet the one in Yvette’s hand is billions times more powerful.”

“Watch this,” Yvette said. She spoke into the device. “‘Siri, what is the temperature around here?’”

Athos and d’Artagnan watched with mouths agape as the thing in Yvette’s hand replied, in a pleasant female voice, that it was currently seven degrees with snow and light rain predicted. “A clever trick?”

“Clever, yes,” Jeremie said. “A trick, no. It makes me so sad that we don’t have time to show you all the wonderful things of this century.”

“No, _monsieur_ , it’s better you don’t. My brain doesn’t have room for all I already know, let alone all you would teach us,” Athos said.

“And it’s already hard to leave your bed behind,” d’Artagnan added mournfully. Yvette giggled.

“Good point. Jeremie, maybe we should stop showing off. It’s not kind to dangle things they will never have again once they return.”

“True. D’Artagnan, how is your head?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Athos peered at d’Artagnan’s face. “Seeing double?”

“Only a little?”

“Headache?”

“It’s there.”

“Dizziness?”

“Only when I stand.”

“And that, Jeremie, is how you find out how his head is,” Athos said as Yvette shook her head disgustedly at his brother’s stupidity.

“But I’m resting. What more do you want me to do?” d’Artagnan said.

“Nothing,” Jeremie said. “Have something for the pain, a nap if you feel like it, and no alcohol. In other words, sit and enjoy yourself. What would you like to talk about, or see?”

The lad shrugged. “Everything. Anything. Athos, you choose.”

“Then, since you say portraiture is still in fashion, perhaps some art?”

“That’s my speciality,” Yvette said. “Art and languages.”

She showed them beautiful books—the method of capturing the images onto the paper looked miraculous to Athos, no matter how much he knew it was all down to science and the many inventions since his time—reproducing the works from the centuries following Athos’s time. “Of course, since the histories are different, art may go in a different direction from our world.”

“Yes,” Athos said, distracted by a delicate drawing of a crane from a country called Japan, of which he had never heard. “But I am grateful to see this, even if it never comes to pass in our world.”

Over lunch, the conversation turned from the history of art, to the art of history, and then to history, revolution and regicide. “A country must have a ruler,” d’Artagnan said.

“Yes, a head of state is needed. But the idea that it should be decided by inheritance through the bloodline has been rejected in almost all modern countries. Where the king or queen has been retained, their position is only ceremonial.” Jeremie regarded d’Artagnan thoughtfully. “Be honest. Do you think the best ruler for your France is the current king? Would Richelieu or another minister make a better leader? Even the queen might?”

“It’s how we do things,” d’Artagnan said with surprising stubbornness.

“I benefited from this system,” Athos said, “but I would hardly defend patrilineal succession. A mere accident of birth determines which brother runs the estate? I loved my brother dearly but he was temperamentally unsuited to be _comte_.”

“Louis shouldn’t even be king,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Marie de Medici left the real heir to rot.”

Jeremie’s ears pricked up. “Oh yes?”

There was no harm in telling the tale here and now, although it had been such a deeply kept secret for so long, Athos found it hard to be open about it. D’Artagnan did not have the same qualms. Yvette was horrified. “That poor man! And what an awful woman, to think of doing that to her son, and her grandson.”

“Marie de Medici is the strongest argument I have ever encountered against women being rulers in their own right. My apologies, madame,” Athos added. “She is strong-willed but incompetent. She passed that on to her son, I regret to say.”

“So if the next king were not to be of Bourbon blood, that would all to the good,” Yvette said. Athos frowned at her skirting so close to a truth he did not want d’Artagnan to learn of.

“No chance of that,” d’Artagnan said. “Louis has another brother, and there are other claimants of the Bourbon line, if not of his siring.”

“In _our_ world,” Jeremie said, looking at Athos in a significant manner, “Louis’s heir becomes one of the greatest kings France ever had.”

“Followed by two weaklings, who were the last kings we ever had.” Yvette’s voice dripped with scorn.

“What about Napoleon?” Jeremie asked.

“More proof of the hereditary principle being fundamentally flawed.”

“I do adore my little _frondeur_.” Jeremie jumped. Yvette had obviously made her displeasure known in a physical manner.

“No more politics,” d’Artagnan pleaded. “My head hurts.”

“Then lie down,” Athos said. “Or have a nap if you want.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, and excused himself.

“Our king’s capricious nature offends my brother more than the rest of us, only because we have become used to it,” Athos explained. “Though it’s treason to think it, I can only hope our history goes the way yours has done, because the Bourbon line has become weak and France can survive little more of bad rule, long wars, and kings and nobles who do not honour the bargain once struck with the common folk.”

Yvette raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a bit of a republican yourself.”

“I abhor the idea of a violent revolution. But can a monarch be overthrown without one?”

“Only very, very rarely,” Jeremie said. “But we keep giving powers to heirs of leaders, and then this leads to a sense of entitlement. The rights of a democracy must be continually defended.”

“Perhaps because people don’t want it?”

“Because in times of crisis, real or imagined, people want a strong leader,” Jeremie said. “And those who claim to be strong leaders, don’t like any force which would compel them to step down or curtail their powers. Hence violent revolutions to remove monarchs and dictators.”

“But good leaders are necessary, especially if the nation is under threat.”

“Imagine this, then, Athos. Suppose you had a captain who had won his post through a single act of genuine valour, but who then clung to the post despite manifest incompetency and ill-treatment of all under him. The regiment is losing soldiers in battles because of him, and the king is not being kept safe. What should the regiment do? Retain the captain because he was once useful and is thus entitled to stay? Or have him dismissed and a more able person put in his place?”

“You realise the Musketeers is far from a democracy and we have no say in who is our captain.”

“Yes, yes,” Jeremie said impatiently. “But is it just to have one man continue in power on the basis of strength shown in one crisis? Or worse, because his _grandfather_ was strong in a crisis?”

“No, it is not just. It just _is_.”

“You would put up with a bad leader rather than fight to replace them?” Yvette asked.

“Have you ever been in a battle, Yvette?” Athos said, a little more sharply than he meant to be.  “Seen what happens in a revolt? Many ordinary people die. Many soldiers from the commoner class die. And in the end, the side with the most might wins, regardless of virtue. That is not just either.”

“Which is why revolts have to involve everyone who wants the leader or king or dictator gone.”

Athos pursed his lips. “And after the glorious rebellion, a good and noble leader devoted to the rights of the common man is put in charge and always steps down when requested, and life thereafter is a paradise for the commoners.”

Yvette made a face at him. “No, but when there are enough dictators removed, then you can have a free democracy.”

“Where everyone must have papers issued by the state or they starve? As d’Artagnan and I will surely do if we aren’t able to return?”

“Our president is not a dictator! But there are so many threats to France’s security. We must know who the people are who serve us and whom we serve.”

“In my world, serious criminals are branded. In your world, they must carry a card. I suppose that’s _some_ improvement,” Athos said.

“We don’t hang people for stealing bread, at least.”

“Only because your bread is cheap and stealing a loaf from a family doesn’t mean that family starves instead of the thief.”

Yvette opened her mouth, and Athos could tell she was about to shout at him, but Jeremie put his hand on her arm. “Darling. I don’t think Athos is arguing his world is perfect, or that our world is dreadful. Are you, Athos?”

“No, I am not. I am arguing that people have to trust that your government is benign because it has enormous powers over them. When that ‘democratic’ government begins to abuse those powers, how much better is it to live under that than under a good king?”

“But we can vote the government out?”

“Only if they let you,” Athos said. “What if the president refuses, and the army backs him? Has this never happened in any of your kingless countries? It did in Rome, after all.”

“Which is why we, the common people, have to keep fighting to retain true democracy,” Jeremy replied. “We can’t take it for granted.”

“Then I applaud you, _monsieur_. When the bargain between ruler and ruled is maintained through active consent, kept in balance, then it matters little whether ruler is decided by inheritance or a vote. The problem in my time is that we have too many kings who are beyond the reach of reason on this point, and supported by those who benefit from them.”

“We have too many presidents like that in this world too,” Jeremie muttered.  “More wine? Coffee, tea, or chocolate?”

“Since I will have little chance to partake on my return, chocolate would be delightful,” Athos said.

“Maybe we should find a way to sneak some back with you,” Yvette said.

“No, please do not. Best leave it as a sweet memory to enjoy.”

Jeremie rose and went to the kitchen. “What will you do if you end up returning but it’s months after you disappeared? We have no way of knowing if you will or will not,” Yvette asked.

“I don’t know. Treville knows me, know d’Artagnan well enough, that he would not assume we are deserters. The cardinal would love to believe that though. We’ll have to make a run for it in that case.” She frowned at his words. “But if it’s only days, then...I thought about telling him an edited version of the truth, that d’Artagnan was knocked out and addled, and a kind and generous couple took us in to care for him. Though how to explain my absence.... It’s perhaps best to make a clean breast of it. He knows I’m not prone to fantasy, and neither is d’Artagnan.”

“But there’s a risk you might be hanged as deserters or worse?”

“Sadly. It’s not your problem.”

“Not my...! Athos, do you think we won’t _care_ if you go back and are executed?”

“My dear, you will never know. So imagine us safe and well, and nothing will arise to contradict you.”

“That’s...not acceptable.” But even as she said it, Athos knew she had no other choice. “Maybe we could send some proof with you.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt it will be necessary. Don’t worry. We’ve survived much worse.”

******************************

“I’m torn between hoping they can go back, and hoping they can’t,” Yvette admitted to Jeremie as he held her in their bed.

“Me too. They’re an engaging pair, and I’d love to have more time to talk to them, but they don’t fit at all in this world. They would, eventually, but I think they’d be miserable in the meantime.”

“I don’t mean like that. If they don’t go back, they’ll be consigned to a life of semi-criminality. If they do go back, they might be treated as criminals and hanged. Or worse.”

“Do you think either of them would avoid returning because of that?”

“No. Damn it. And damn you and them for making me like them.”

Jeremie chuckled. “Sorry, my darling. What time are we meeting Pierre?”

“Nine thirty. I hope the gardens will be quiet. The weather is so atrocious, I suspect they will be.”

“And if they can’t return?”

“Then I’ll need to put some feelers out to friends of friends of friends, to see if I can swing false IDs for them.”

“Jeremie, you could be arrested.”

“I know. But what else can we do? If we get them papers, then they might be able to find work.”

Yvette went silent. The chances were high that they would not return, but that presented so many other problems.

“Stop worrying, darling,” Jeremie said, then he kissed her. “We’re in the hands of fate. We have no control, so let’s just see what happens.”

“I don’t like being out of control.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise to me.”

“I hate you,” she growled at him.

“Yes, of course you do. Go to sleep.”

******************************

The weather on Saturday was truly dreadful—sleet, rain, fog, and near zero temperatures. Their guests ate a warm breakfast at her insistence, and wore borrowed coats over their uniforms, their cloaks, weapons and Athos’s hat were all hidden inside a large duffle bag. Athos and d’Artagnan both wore woollen hats and looked quite ridiculous. Yvette took more photos.

“What _will_ you do with these things?” Athos asked, somewhat exasperated at this habit of hers.

“Look at them and think of you,” she said. He smiled, and for once, it lit up his eyes. He didn’t complain again.

Pierre met them at the Concorde Métro station. “All ready for your big adventure?” he asked d’Artagnan. “How’s the head?”

“My head is much better, and I’m ready to go home again,” he said. “Though I shall miss our new friends.”

“We both will,” Athos said, putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Yvette, I hope you remember where you found us. I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“Don’t worry, I know it well. It’s on the other side of the gardens, just past the sculptures on the parterre.”

The gardens were quiet, as they hoped, though not completely empty, so they walked quickly and avoided people as best they could. The unpleasant rain and cold gave them a good reason to keep their heads down. “There,” she said. “The pool was to my left as we walked over, and you were not far from the parterre.”

“Then they should find where they came through exactly,” Pierre said. He had a small camera with him to film the crossover, if and where it happened.

“We should say our farewells now, I think,” Athos said. He held out his hand to Yvette, who accepted it. “You have been kind and generous beyond any expectations. I have nothing to give you but my thanks, and the promise never to forget you.”

“Oh, you’ll make me cry,” she said, flinging her arms around him and startling him. “Please be safe, and look after Charles.”

“I will. And...I’ll try to keep Milady alive for your sake.”

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes.

She hugged d’Artagnan more carefully because of his injury. “Take it as easy as you can, okay?”

“Yes, okay,” he said, grinning.

“And believe in Constance’s love.”

“I’ll try. Thank you.”

Jeremie hugged them both, and though he didn’t shed a tear, his regret at losing them was sincere.

“I do have one small keepsake,” Yvette said, handing Athos an envelope. “Open it on the other side, but in private.”

“As you wish. _Monsieur_ Michaud, give us a moment to change our clothes.” Pierre gave him a thumb’s up, but started filming anyway.

The woollen hats came off, as did the coats, and the cloaks which replaced them were clearly not as warm by any means. With their weapons in place, their stances changed subtly. Not longer guests, or refugees, they were soldiers. “D’Artagnan, why don’t you have a hat?” she scolded.

Athos sighed. “I’ve never received a satisfactory answer to that, Yvette. You may as well save your breath.”

“It’s his hair, isn’t it? He likes to keep his hair nice.”

D’Artagnan flushed. “Just don’t like hats,” he mumbled, making Jeremie laugh at him. “But, if I may, I have one last question, _mademoiselle_.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you wear a wig all the time?”

“I don’t,” she replied in confusion. “This is my own hair.”

“Ah.”

Athos grinned. “Let me guess. More chemicals extracted from coal tar.”

“More or less,” she said, grinning back.

When they had everything in the right position, Athos nodded. “Then, farewell, I hope,” he said.

“We’re going to look like fools if this doesn’t work,” d’Artagnan said. “Farewell, and God keep you all.”

Yvette clung to Jeremie’s arm as they watched the two men carefully explore the area in systematic sweeps, looking for the bridge, if it existed. The search went on for several minutes. “I think it’s a fail—”

Athos disappeared without a sound or a sign, and d’Artagnan stopped only to turn and wave, before he too vanished.

“Good God,” Pierre said. “It worked!”

“And without lightning or a DeLorean,” Jeremie said.

“That’s for time travel. How many times do I have to tell you?” their friend complained. He picked up a pebble and tossed it at the place where the men had disappeared. It fell to the ground on the other side. “That answers that question. We won’t be popping over for a visit in the Paris of Louis XIII.”

“They’re gone,” Yvette said, still staring at the spot. “Just like that.”

“Just like that,” Jeremie agreed. He put his arm around her. “Let’s go home, darling. I owe you a day on your own, and we have this weekend left of our break.”

She let him turn her, but Pierre exclaimed, “What the hell?” so they swung back. “This just came out of nowhere.”

A plastic bottle, like the many thousands discarded every day. It could have been the wind, but that didn’t explain the note rolled up inside the bottle, addressed to Jeremie and her, at Issy-les-Moulineaux, France. “Athos?” she said, staring in wonder at her companions.

“Let’s find somewhere warm to look at it,” Jeremie said.

She turned to her friend. “Pierre, have you made a note of the location?”

“Exact coordinates and everything,” he said. “The café should be open.”

Jeremie ordered coffee for them all, while Yvette and Pierre tried to remove the letter from the bottle. They finally had to resort to using Yvette’s Swiss Army knife to cut the top off. The letter was sealed with wax. Rather than break the seal, which she suspected was Athos’s own family crest, she cut around it. The writing was hard on the eyes, but Jeremie was able to read it easily.

> _My friends_ _  
> _ _  
> I have no way of knowing if this will reach you, but if it should, then be assured D and I are quite well. We arrived no more than three hours after our departure, strange to say. D regrets that in the event, we did not stay longer, so fond of you has he become. Our absence caused no alarm as all was still in confusion because of the storm.  
>    
>  We have now been back three days, and the venture we told you of, with M and R, will be executed tomorrow, if nothing intervenes._ _  
>   
>  _ _A thanks you most heartily, Jeremie, for your gift. Our brothers were astonished and delighted at our tales, and by your gift, dear Yvette. D and I will treasure them all our lives._ _  
>   
>  _ _One of our comrades is somewhat skilled at making quick sketches. I asked him if he might do one of we four, and he agreed. I enclose the result, which I hope will act as a small token of our deep regard._ _  
>   
>  _ _I beg leave to remain your humble and most grateful friend,_
> 
> _Athos_

No title, no full name. Yvette carefully unrolled the little sketch, which had been done in ink. “Oh, so that’s Aramis and Porthos,” she exclaimed.

Jeremie looked at it closely. “So Aramis really is as handsome as Dumas says.”

“But Porthos is—” Pierre started to say.

“We know,” Yvette and Jeremie said together, then laughed.

“What did you guys give them?”

“I had a small book on the history of medicine,” Jeremie said. “I thought Aramis would enjoy it.”

“And I gave them some prints of the photos I took of them,” Yvette said. “I thought if they had to prove anything to anyone, those would be indisputable.”

“You realise what happened today is beyond amazing, right?” Pierre said. “Even though I can’t tell a single person.”

“Why not?” Yvette asked.

“Are you kidding? I’d be a laughing stock.”

“But you have proof.”

“Proof. A film and photos—the two most easily faked media in existence.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said.

He grinned slight manically. “I’m not! I’m the only physicist in the world, in the history of the world, to know without a doubt that multiple universes exist! And that travel between them is possible. Short of one of those guys falling back out of their time and into the lap of Stephen Hawking on live TV, no one else will ever know that with the one hundred percent certainty that I do. So, I’m happy.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I’ll ever be able to reproduce this.”

“I suppose not.” She thought it was a shame though.

“What’s this ‘venture’ he’s talking about?”

Their coffee arrived just then, so as they warmed up over it, Yvette and Jeremie explained to their friend how the four Musketeers and their captain Treville planned to take down the notorious Milady, and with her, the even more infamous Cardinal Richelieu.

“Do you think they can carry it off?” Pierre asked.

“We’ll never know,” Jeremie said with a little sigh.

Yvette was certain. “If anyone can, they can.”

And if it was at all humanly possible, she had absolute faith in Athos keeping his promise to her.

******************************

The plan had gone exactly to plan, with the not so small exception that Athos’s aim was slightly off, leading to a worse injury for d’Artagnan than any of them had intended. With his newly granted knowledge about the devilish ‘bacteria’ which he had pressed upon Aramis, Athos was grateful his brother had dressed d’Artagnan’s wound only after cleaning it thoroughly with brandy.

But the ensuing actions by Anne and the Cardinal were all the Musketeers could have wanted, and with Richelieu’s confession in her majesty’s safekeeping, he would never be a danger to her again.

The same could not be said of Athos’s wife, and Treville insisted she be brought to justice.

The delicious sensation of catching her out quickly drowned in anxiety when she revealed she had Constance in her custody. Knowing what the _other_ Anne had done to Constance—and knowing d’Artagnan was also aware of this—destroyed Athos’s usual sanguine approach to an upcoming battle. Sarazin and his men were defeated quickly enough, but they had let Anne slip from their grasp.

Athos’s heart climbed into his mouth when he found Anne holding Constance hostage. His thoughts leapt ahead unbidden to how he would have to comfort d’Artagnan, and what his younger brother would do to Anne when she killed Constance.

But he had reckoned without Constance’s bravery and quick thinking causing her to extract herself without their help, and then it was only Anne at the point of Athos’s sword, and at his mercy.

He ought to finish it, finish her. The harm she had done had been incalculable, and as much to the innocent as the complicit. But as she knelt and mocked him, and Aramis begged him to leave her to justice to deal with, he heard Yvette’s plea again, and remembered his promise.

So he told her, “Go to Spain. England. Anywhere. I don't care. But if you ever show your face in Paris again... I will kill you, without hesitation.”

Being Anne, she couldn’t just go, but had to taunt him further, but Athos felt...released. Freed. Without the weight on his shoulders he had borne so long.

D’Artagnan noticed, and knew why. “I'm glad you saved her.”

Athos smiled. “Perhaps I was saving myself.” He tossed away the locket. He no longer needed the reminder.

It wasn’t the last time his new friends’ words came back to haunt him. The next time was when, a few weeks after his faked murder, he listened to the king announce her majesty’s pregnancy, saw Aramis’s expression—and the queen’s—and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Aramis was the father of the queen’s child.

 “If the next king were not to be of Bourbon blood, that would all to the good,” Yvette had said.

And Jeremie had told him that, in _their_ world, “Louis’s heir becomes one of the greatest kings France ever had.” Would the same be true in _this_ world? And would Aramis be able to escape being hanged or broken on the wheel for his treason?

The possibility of the next king being a better, cleverer man than the present one was surprisingly little comfort to him after Rochefort—the _other_ Athos’s implacable foe in those stupid books—became the serpent in the palace threatening the Musketeers, their friends, and even the royal family itself. But when Anne—who had returned to France despite his edict, and had insinuated herself even more intimately than Rochefort into the heart of the king—became the agent, by which they not only saved Aramis and Constance, but also the queen herself, and then helped them destroy Rochefort and broke his hold on the king’s mind, Athos knew the _other_ Athos had no power over his life. Anne would live, so would Constance, and those he loved were safe.

The next time his memories of his all too brief visit to the future gave him the kick in the backside he needed, was more than five years after he’d left their world. Returned from a pointless, brutal war—Jeremie’s theoretical example about a bad leader had come to pass in a horrifying way—to find Paris had become hell on earth for all too many of its citizens. A new favourite held the king in thrall just as tightly as the new captain of the Red Guard had Paris under his heel, and Athos came to the realisation he was no longer up to this.

Porthos, d’Artagnan still had a fire in their bellies. Aramis had physically returned, but his mind, his loyalty was forever drifting off toward the palace, no matter how much Athos and Porthos both tried to dissuade him. Athos couldn’t do it any more. He didn’t believe in the king’s judgement or his mercy, his brothers were already treading along paths he did not wish to follow, but along which he trudged mechanically, dutifully, though he no longer cared about his duty, and his mechanical efforts were simply not good enough.

And just at that point, a bright, beautiful, clever, fiery young woman called Sylvie came into his life like a comet. At first, he resisted the attraction, certain that love was no longer for him, and that he was death for any woman who dared to love _him_. But she refused to let him drift along, pulling him towards her with the certainty of a waterfall at the end of a long, slow, old river.

Then they lost Treville. His death forced Athos to take charge in a way he never wanted to, while still grieving harder than he had done for his real father. He had to confront and destroy the evil men who had blighted not just Paris, but also the musketeers and their loved ones far too personally. Even though he desperately sought Grimaud’s death and the defeat of Gaston and Lorraine’s forces, the reality of it left him empty, heartbroken, and desperately needing to end this chapter of his life. Once the king—the child king—was safe, with a regent and a prime minister whose good faith he believed in, if not entirely their good sense, Athos walked away. 

Not with d’Artagnan, happy with Constance, richly deserving of the promotion Athos argued for.

Not with Porthos, promoted even above d’Artagnan, going back to the battlefield where he was born to rule.

And not with Aramis, at the side of his queen, and guiding his son, though he could acknowledge his relationship with neither.

But with Sylvie, saviour of his broken, battered soul. He fought his attraction, he pretended not to care, he told himself she was spreading sedition and was thus dangerous and unreliable.

But she was above his petty categorisation, rejected his flaccid excuses, kept pushing and poking and asking until she woke his mind as much as his desire, and he knew that here was a woman, a person, who deserved the better world she was prepared to fight for.

And yet, for all that, if she had not fallen pregnant, he might have made the unforgiveable error of not returning to her.

Before he made the final decision to leave, of course he had to talk to her about what she wanted. With the garrison buildings destroyed, his refuge had become her tiny space in St-Antoine, where they could do little but eat on their laps, and sleep tightly wrapped around each other. He asked her as they lay in just that way, where she wanted to raise their child, where she wanted to live.

“Anywhere where we can breathe free and live free.”

“You don’t want to stay and fight?” A revolution was coming, maybe in a couple of decades as in the other world’s history, maybe sooner.

“I do. But first I want our child to live, to grow, to learn. The queen and Aramis have a chance to make things better, but while war rages, the common people in France will never be free. We should go to New France.”

“The colonies?”

“Yes. Maybe there we can create a new society, with new laws and better rulers.”

“It will break d’Artagnan’s heart if I don’t return some day.”

“He has Constance,” she said. “And who said you will never return? But you don’t want to be here any more, Athos. That much is obvious. You deserve to be happy. France needed you, she used you. Now I need you, as does our child.”

He placed his hand over her gently swelling belly. “Yes. I’ll ask the queen to help us pay for our passage.”

“Hmph. She damn well better.”

One day he would tell her about his visit to a possible future, and about Yvette and Jeremie and their astonishing, beautiful world. He wanted a world like that for Sylvie and for their child. If he had not met Yvette and Jeremie, seen the astonishing creations flowing from the invention of common folk and tasted how good a world where the commoners were allowed to flourish and given some control over their existence, he might never have imagined how much better life could be for his family.  

It wouldn’t happen in his lifetime, but it might in the lifetime of his grandchildren, or great-grandchildren.

So now it was time to make a start on their own, private Eden.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm *really* sorry about the title, okay? :)


End file.
